High Hunt

by David Eddings

  “Well,” he started, “don’t make it too definite. I’ll have to give it some thought and talk it over with Monica—not that I have to—” He left it hanging, but I understood. He went on quickly. “Well, we do kind of like to talk things over. We make better decisions as a team. We feel that marriages work better that way, don’t you agree?”

  “Makes sense,” I said. “I’ll sound out the other guys and let you know.”

  “I’d appreciate it,” he said. “But mind, nothing definite yet.”

  “Sure, Stan,” I said. “I understand.”

  We kicked it around for another hour or so before I finally made an excuse to get away. Stan was all right, but the house was so damned neat it gave me the creeps. I guess I’m just a natural-born slob.

  7

  ON Friday morning I went up to Seattle and picked up my stuff from the place where I’d had it stored. I kind of putzed around a little but I couldn’t find anybody I knew, so I drove on back to Tacoma.

  I spent most of the afternoon unpacking the stuff. I wound up with books all over the place. After I got it all squared away, it dawned on me that I was just going to have to pack it all up again anyway in a little while, but what the hell? I like having my books and things out where I can lay my hands on them. It was a little crowded though. My stereo alone took up a sizable chunk of the living room.

  That evening I went across town to the “art movie” theater to catch an Italian flick I’d been wanting to see for three or four years.

  “I don’t see why you want to see that silly thing anyway,” Jack said when I asked him if he wanted to go along. “I know a guy who seen it Tuesday. He said it was a real loser. Nothin’ happens at all.”

  “Maybe he just looked too fast,” I said. “You want to come along or not?”

  “Naw, I don’t think so, Dan,” he said. “I really don’t get much out of foreign movies.”

  “Just thought I’d ask,” I told him. It kind of bugs me when somebody puts something down that I’m really enthusiastic about. Probably everybody’s the same way really.

  The “art theater” was like all the others I’ve been to—a grubby, rattletrappy, converted neighborhood showhouse with maybe a hundred and fifty uncomfortable seats. The lobby was painted a nauseating shade—something like a cross between pea-soup green and antique egg-yolk yellow—and the walls were cluttered with poster art and smeary abstracts. The popcorn counter had been replaced by card tables covered with paper cups full of synthetic espresso.

  The movie itself was preceded by a couple of incomprehensible short subjects, an artsy cartoon, and about two years’ worth of coming attractions. Then there was the intermission, and everybody went out to gag down some of that rotten coffee and stand around making polite conversation.

  I choked on a mouthful of the lukewarm ink and drifted over to lean against the wall and watch the animals.

  Across the lobby I spotted Stan Larkin and Monica, she looking very bright and very chic and he hovering over her like a man with a brand-new car he’s afraid someone’s going to scratch. They chatted back and forth with bright, cultured expressions on their faces, drawing a fairly obvious wall around themselves, keeping the college kids and the freaks who thought all foreign movies were dirty at arm’s length. With that attitude, it was pretty unlikely that either of them would notice me, but I turned my head away from them anyway. A little bit of Monica went a long way.

  When I turned my head, I caught a familiar face. Where in hell had I seen that little girl before? I was sure I didn’t know any of the local college kids, and with the straight hair, bare feet, granny glasses, jeans, and sweatshirt, she had to be a college girl.

  Then Joan came out of the women’s John, and I snapped to it. It was Clydine, the little Pacific Avenue pamphleteer I’d met on my first night back in Tacoma. It was an impulse, but I needed some protective covering in case Stan spotted me. I pushed my way through toward them.

  “Clydine!” I said in simulated surprise. “Joan! How are you girls anyway?”

  They looked at me blankly for an instant, not having the faintest notion who I was. “Uh—just fine,” Clydine said, covering up beautifully. “We haven’t seen you in—” She left it hanging, hoping I’d give her a clue. Joan was still looking at me doubtfully, her eyes flickering to my haircut. While it wasn’t exactly GI, it was still too short to put me in their crowd.

  “Let’s see,” I said, “it must have been just before I got sent to Leavenworth.”

  Their eyes bulged slightly.

  “I’ll bet you didn’t even recognize me with this haircut and without my beard,” I said, “but they keep you clipped pretty short in the Big House.” It was a little thick, but they bought it.

  “How long have you been—out?” Joan asked sympathetically, the suspicion fading from her face.

  “About a week now.”

  “Was it—I mean—well—” Clydine’s eyes were brimming, and her hand had moved to touch my arm comfortingly. I was a martyr to the cause. She wasn’t sure exactly what cause yet, but whatever it was, she was with me all the way. Some girls are like that.

  I carefully arranged my face into what I hoped was an expression of suffering nobility. “Anything,” I said in a voice thick with emotion, “anything is better than participating in an immoral war.” That ought to narrow it down for them.

  Clydine embraced me impulsively. For a moment I thought she was going to plant ceremonial kisses on each of my cheeks. As soon as Clydine let go, Joan gave me a quick squeeze. I began to feel a little shitty about it. The kids were pretty obviously sincere about the whole thing.

  “Come on, girls,” I said, trying to cool it a little. In about a minute one of them would have made a speech. “It wasn’t really that bad. It’s gonna take a whole lot more than a year and a half in a federal joint to get old Dan down.” I thought I’d better give them a name to hang on me.

  The lobby lights blinked twice, letting us know that the projectionist was ready if we were. I was about to ease away gracefully.

  “We’d better go find our seats,” Clydine said, glomming onto my arm like grim death. Joan caught the other one, and I was led down the aisle like a reluctant bridegroom.

  I’d overplayed it, and now I was stuck with them. All I’d really wanted was someone to hold Stan off with, but they weren’t about to let a bona fide hero of the revolution get away. I was hauled bodily into the midst of a gaggle of college types and plunked down into a seat between Joan and Clydine. I could hear a ripple of whispers circling out from where I sat, and I slouched lower in my seat, wishing the floor would open under me.

  The movie was good—not as good as I’d expected, but then they never really are—and I enjoyed it despite the need to keep up my little masquerade.

  After it was over, one hairy young cat suggested we all go up to his pad and blow some grass. I saw an easy out for myself. I took Clydine aside out in the lobby.

  “Uh—look, Clydine,” I said in a slightly embarrassed undertone, “I don’t want to crimp the party, but my parole officer and the local office of the FBI are staying awfully close to me. They’re just waiting for the chance to bust me back into the big joint, and if they caught me at a pot party, well—I’ll just split out and—”

  Her eyes flashed indignantly. She had gorgeous eyes, very large. “Stay right here,” she ordered me. “Don’t you dare move.” She circled off through the crowd with her long dark hair streaming out behind her, and her little fanny twitching interestingly in her tight jeans. She was back in about a minute and a half.

  “It’s all fixed, Danny,” she told me. “We’re all going to the Blue Goose for beer instead.” She grabbed my arm again. I felt Joan move in on the other side. Trapped.

  The Blue Goose was a beer joint near the campus, and by the time we got there the place was packed to the rafters. Word had leaked out.

  Clydine and Joan brought me in like the head of John the Baptist. All they needed was a plate—and maybe an ax
.

  “Danny,” Clydine said in an undertone, “I hate to say this, but I’ve forgotten your last name, and if I’m going to introduce you—”

  “No last names,” I muttered to her quickly. “The FBI—” I left it hanging again.

  Her eyes narrowed, and she nodded conspiratorially. “I understand,” she said, “leave everything to me.”

  “I won’t be able to stay long,” I said. “I think I’ve shaken off my tail but—”

  The rest of the evening was like something out of a Very bad spy movie or one of those Russian novels of the late nineteenth century. I said as little as possible, concentrating on drinking the beer that everybody in the place seemed intent on buying for me.

  A number of girls insisted on kissing me soundly, if indiscriminately, about the head. Even one guy with a beard slipped up behind me and planted one on my cheek. He called it the “kiss of brotherhood,” but if he carries on like that with his brothers, his family has serious problems. Still, it was the first time I’d ever been kissed by anybody with a beard. I can’t really say that I recommend it, all things considered.

  After a couple hours I was getting a little bent out of shape from all the beer. Most of the time the place was deadly quiet. Everybody just sat there, watching me guzzle down the suds. Now I know how the girl feels who provides the entertainment at stag parties.

  Most of the conversation consisted of half-spoken questions and cryptic answers, followed by long intervals of silence while they digested the information. “Was it—?” one young guy with a mustache asked.

  “Yeah,” I said, “pretty much.”

  They thought about that.

  “Is there any kind of—well, you know—among the resisters, I mean?” another one asked.

  “I don’t think I should—well—the guys still inside—you know.”

  They kicked that around for a while.

  “Do the other inmates—?”

  “Some do. Some don’t.”

  That shook them.

  “Do you think a guy really ought to—? Instead of—well, you know.”

  “That’s something everybody’s got to decide for himself,” I said. I could say that with a straight face, because I really believed it. “When the time comes, you’re the one with your head in the meat grinder. After all the speeches and slogans—from all possible sides—you’re still the one who has to decide which button you’re going to push because it’s your head that’s going to get turned into hamburger.”

  That really got to them.

  “I’d better split now,” I said, lurching to my feet. I walked heavily toward the door, feeling just a little like James Bond—or maybe Lenin—or just possibly like Baron Munchausen. I turned at the doorway and gave them the peace sign—they’d earned it. Look at all the beer they’d bought me.

  “Keep the faith,” I said in a choked-up voice. Then I went on out.

  The patter of little bare feet behind me told me that I hadn’t really escaped after all.

  “You’d better go on back to your friends, Clydine,” I said, not bothering to took around.

  Glom! She had me by the arm again. She pulled me to a halt beside my car.

  “Danny,” she said, looking up at me. “I think you’re just the most—well—” She climbed up my arm hand over hand and pulled my face down to hers.

  Despite some bad experiences, I’m not a woman-hater. On the whole, I think the idea of two sexes is way out front of any possible alternatives. I responded to Clydine’s kiss with a certain enthusiasm.

  After a while she pulled her face clear and looked at me, her big eyes two pools of compassion behind those gogglelike granny glasses.

  “How long has it been, Danny?” she whispered.

  As a matter of fact it had been a little better than a month.

  “Too long,” I said brokenly, “too long.”

  She let go of me, opened the door of my car, and got in.

  “Will there be any problem at the place where you live?” she asked matter-of-factly.

  “No,” I told her, starting the car.

  We drove across town to the trailer park in silence. Clydine nestled against my shoulder. In spite of the shabby clothes which she wore as a sort of uniform, she smelled clean. That’s a pretty common misconception about girls like Clydine. I’ve never met one yet who wasn’t pretty clean most of the time.

  As a matter of fact, the first thing she did when we got to my trailer was to go into the bathroom and wash her bare feet.

  “I wouldn’t want to get your sheets all filthy,” she said. She stopped suddenly, her hand flying to her mouth. Silently she mouthed the words “Is this place bugged?” at me. Too many movies.

  Motioning her to silence, I picked up my FM transistor from the coffee table and stuffed the earplug into the side of my head. I turned it on, picking up a fairly good Beethoven piano sonata—which she, of course, couldn’t hear. I made a pretense of checking out the trailer.

  “It’s clean,” I told her, switching it off.

  “How does that—”

  “It’s a little modification,” I said. “An old con in the joint showed me how. You get anywhere near a microphone with it and you pick up a feedback—you know, a high-pitched whistle.” I jerked the plug and switched the piano sonata back on. “And that’ll blank out any directional mike from outside.” I moved carefully to all the windows, looking out and then pulling the drapes. Then I locked the door. I go to movies, too.

  “We’re all secure now,” I said.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” she asked.

  I shook my head.

  “I understand, Danny. Maybe after.”

  I wished to hell she wouldn’t be so cold-blooded about it.

  “You want a drink?” I asked. I always get nervous. I always have.

  “Well, maybe a little one.”

  I mixed us a couple, hitting hers a little hard with bourbon. I didn’t want her to get away.

  We sat on the couch drinking silently. I just sipped at mine. I didn’t want to booze myself out of action.

  She took off the granny glasses and laid them on the table. Without the damned things, she had a cute little face. She was one of those short, perky little girls who used to get elected cheerleaders before all this other stuff came along. Then, without so much as turning a hair, she shucked off the sweatshirt. She wasn’t wearing a bra.

  My faint worry about the booze turned out to be pretty irrelevant.

  She stood up, her frontage coming to attention like two pink little soldiers. “Let’s go to bed now, shall we?” she said and walked on back down the narrow hallway to the bedroom.

  I put down my drink and turned out the lamp in the living room.

  “Don’t forget to bring in the transistor,” she reminded me.

  I picked it up and went on back.

  She had finished undressing, and she was lying on the bed. My hands began to shake. She had a crazy build on her—real wall-to-wall girl. I started to take off my shirt.

  “Do you have to leave it on that station?” she asked, pointing at the transistor. “I mean is that the only frequency that—”

  “That’s the one,” I said. “I’d have to take it all apart to—”

  “It’s OK,” she said. “It’s just that I’ve never done it with that kind of music on before. Groups most of the time or folk rock—never Beethoven.”

  At least she recognized it.

  I was having a helluva time with my shirt.

  “Here,” she said, sitting up, “let me.” She pushed my hands out of the way and finished unbuttoning my shirt. “Do you like having the light on?”

  “It’s a little bright, isn’t it?” I asked, squinting at it.

  “Some men do, that’s all—that’s why I asked.”

  “Oh.”

  “Do you like to be on top, or do you want me to—”

  I reached down and gently lifted her chin. “Clydine, love, it’s not just exactly as if we were about to
run a quarterback sneak off-tackle. We don’t have to get it all planned out in the huddle, do we? Let’s just improvise, make it up as we go along.”

  She smiled up at me, almost shyly. “I just want it to be good for you, is all,” she said softly.

  “Quit worrying about it,” I told her. I sat down on the bed and reached for her. “One thing though,” I said, cupping one of the little pink soldiers.

  “What’s that?” she asked, nuzzling my neck.

  “How in the hell did you ever get a name like Clydine?”

  She told me, but I promised never to tell anybody else.

  8

  “WHAT’S this doing here?” Clydine was standing over me the next morning, stark naked, with my Army blouse clutched in her little fist. She shook it at me. “What’s this doing here?” she demanded again.

  “You’re wrinkling it,” I said. “Don’t wrinkle it.”

  “You’re a GI, aren’t you?” she said, her voice shaking with fury. “A no-good, lousy, son-of-a-bitching, mother-fucking GI!”

  “Clydine!” I was actually shocked. I’d never heard a girl use that kind of language before.

  “You bastard!”

  “Calm down,” I told her, sitting up in bed.

  “Motherfucker!”

  “Clydine, please don’t use that kind of language. It sounds very ugly coming from a girl your age.”

  “Motherfucker, motherfucker, motherfucker!” she yelled, stamping her foot. Then she threw the blouse on the floor and collapsed on the bed, sobbing bitterly.

  I got up, hung the blouse back up in the closet, and padded barefoot on out to the kitchen. I got myself a beer. I had a bit of a headache. Then I went on back to the bedroom. She was still crying.

  “Are you about through?” I asked her.

  “Son-of-a-bitching motherfucker!” she said, her voice muffled.

  “I’m getting a little tired of that,” I told her.

  “Bite my ass!”

  I reached over and got a good grip on her arm so she couldn’t get a swing at me, then I leaned down and bit her on the fanny, hard.