I knocked hard enough on the Yacht Club door to hurt my knuckles. When the door opened, however, I forgot all that had been troubling me. The room was transformed with the warming auras of the people inside. It was like a vast informal cocktail party.
People stood drinking at the wall bar, talking in small groups, or sitting alone. Clusters congregated at the living-room sets, or stood about, munching snacks, eating sandwiches, drinking beer, sodas, coffee. It really looked like a club—actually, it looked more like a Christmas party—not like a bar at all.
A tall gentleman who introduced himself as Kent offered to take my coat, so I peeled it off, then took the brown towel from my shoulders and slipped it down one sleeve. He hung my coat on a long, brass rack behind the door. He questioned me as to my membership status, and when I told him I was Cap’s guest, he smiled in apparent recognition and escorted me to the back, where Cap was tending bar.
“Angelina!” Cap came around the end of the bar and hugged me. I wondered at his fierce affection as I was forced into his folds of flab, then as he released me, I realized he had been drinking, and for some reason had need to show me off. I suppressed the comical urge to look to see if the impression my bony body had made in his great stomach had stayed—a permanent outline of Angelina pressed in flesh.
He was dressed nicely, in a clean flannel shirt and jeans, and he smelled good. He was happy, deep within his element.
“What can I get you to drink? This is a private club; we don’t worry about IDs here.”
“Oh, I don’t drink. Just tea. Please.”
While I waited, I looked around and noticed a singular lack of women. There were several present whom I assumed were wives; most were playing cards with husbands or partners at card tables set up in the far corner. A couple of women were engaged in sofa conversation with their dates, and there were two women deep in animated discussion at the wall bar, but the rest were men. An astonishing assortment of men.
I swallowed.
Cap brought my tea. “Gee, I’m glad you came,” he said. “I wasn’t sure you would. Next thing, we’ll have to make you a member. We need some ladies to brighten the place up a bit. Add a little color.” I smiled at him. He was a delightful person. “You have a good time now, you hear? I’m stuck behind the bar tonight, or I’d meetcha to some folks. I know you go to work at midnight, but maybe you could stop back by and have some coffee with me when you get off your shift?”
I told him I would, took my tea, and went off to explore this very interesting male territory.
As I shouldered my way through the passages, my nose attuned to the male odor, I listened to snatches of conversation, hearing pauses in the conversation as I passed. I became aware of what people were drinking. After a few leading remarks by some of the men, I realized that my criteria for companionship this night was a man who didn’t drink. A man who didn’t pollute his body. I graciously declined offers of all kinds as I roamed, attentive, searching.
As I slowly walked around, looking, listening, inviting myself in and then out again, introducing myself as necessary, I began to settle down. I felt calm, I felt comforted. I felt a presence again, a guiding, loving presence that warmed me. It was a familiar feeling, one that had been missing from my cold, lonely life for too long, and it felt marvelous. I continued to wander through the Yacht Club, enjoying the atmosphere, feeling confident and relaxed.
I made almost one entire circuit of the room, feeling better and happier all the time. The struggle was over. I was protected, and relieved. And free to let the evening take its course, free to enjoy myself.
Then I saw him. He stood in the corner where the two wall bars met, talking with another man. It was him, there was no doubt. My man for the evening.
He was tall, and gray-haired. His deeply lined face showed years of humor and adventure. He was lean and handsome, with a straight nose and clear, clean eyes.
He drank mineral water. I walked to his side and stood there, tacitly interrupting his conversation.
“Hello,” my gentleman offered.
“Hello,” I said. “My name is Angelina Watson.”
“I’m Fred Bertow,” he said, his eyes registering immediate interest. “This is Carl.”
“Nice to meet you,” Carl said. “I’ll see you later, Fred.” Carl made a shrewd and speedy exit.
“I haven’t seen you here before,” Fred said, leaning closer. He smelled of soap and water. His hands were strong and hairy, the nails neatly manicured. My saliva glands began to ache.
“This is my first time here.”
“Are you new in town?”
“I’ve been here a few months.”
“Maybe I could buy you a drink.”
“No, thank you. I have tea. Maybe I should get straight to the point.”
His smile of amusement was genuine. He was intrigued. And interested. “You look like a nice person; clean, sober, and—I assume—healthy . . .” I waited for his response.
He lifted an eyebrow and confirmed my impressions with a slight nod.
“I find that very attractive.”
“Do you?”
“Yes,” I said simply, and sipped my tea.
He swigged his mineral water from the short bottle as we regarded each other for a long moment. I could visualize his mind racing with the implications and strategies of the next move, which was clearly his. My heart pounded. I tried to keep my knees from shaking or my mouth from grinning stupidly. Men are an easy lot.
When he knew his next move, he smiled. “Are you as squeaky clean as you expect?”
“I take care,” I said. “And look to associate with those who do the same.”
“Shall we associate, then?”
“I’d like that.” For a split second, I looked at this man’s face and couldn’t believe I was saying these things. Then he spoke again, and I fell back into character.
“Now?”
I looked at my watch. It was nine-twenty. I set my teacup on the bar and walked toward the coatrack. I dared not turn around to see if he followed me, but when I took my coat from its hook, he took it from me and helped me into it. I slid the towel through the sleeve and into my oversize coat pocket.
Together we walked out into the crisp cold night, plumes of hot breath preceding us. I found I had nothing to say; I let myself be guided by his large hand in the middle of my back, letting the evening take its course. Surely She had something in mind.
DEDRICK “CAP” NICKS: “Angelina seemed like a nice girl. A little rough around the edges, maybe, but—hey, you gotta be, these days. Especially girls out on their own. They’ve got to be tough.
“She came by a couple of mornings, we sat and had coffee together. But she was always real tired after work. She came by at night a couple of times, too, you know, before her shift, but I was real busy then, and we didn’t get a chance to talk much, so we never really got to know each other. Hey, maybe that’s a good thing, huh?
“No, we just traveled in different circles. The Yacht Club wasn’t her kind of place, although it seemed so at first. She seemed fascinated. Well, hell, we old geezers are pretty fascinating, I must admit. But we weren’t her style. The young ones, they need to go for those tanned athletic young skiers. The tourists. They would be more to Angelina’s liking, I think.
“Hey, I was wondering if you could tell me. I mean I’ve leveled with you, and in my business you hear a lot of rumors. Is it true, I mean, did they really find all that, well, you know, all that stuff in her apartment after she left?”
18
Fred’s apartment was beautifully decorated in expensive and tasteful furnishings. It looked like a magazine advertisement, complete with muted pastel colors, original artwork, and a sweeping view of the snow-covered ski runs and the night-lighted storybook village.
His two little dogs greeted him w
ith wagging tails and wiggling bodies, snuffling and dancing their excitement. I felt like stepping on them, nasty little things. They surely sensed my opinion, for they completely ignored me, took their token loving and greeting from their master, then upon his order disappeared into a far room of the apartment.
Then I had Fred’s attention. All of it.
His large hands seemed to cover every inch of me as he helped me off with my coat, and to my amazement, I found myself moving into his caress, excitement raising goose bumps from toes to fingers, my nipples shrinking to hard little nuts. He poured two glasses of mineral water with slices of lemon, then dimmed the lights and we cozied on the couch to watch the view. I felt completely comfortable by his side; I was amenable and excited by his touch.
I was becoming a woman.
“Sometimes,” he said, “I sit here, right here on this couch, and watch the skiers all day long.” His hand began to play with the hair at the back of my neck. I could feel my temperature rising. “And on the holidays, at night, all the ski patrol people go up to the top and ski down with torches. They come down in a line, and crisscross, and ski different patterns, all holding up these flames in the black night against the white snow.” He kissed behind my ear. I wanted to see the torch skiers. I wanted to see them so much that I almost could; I could almost pluck them right from his memory and see them in my mind’s eye.
He took my glass and set it on the coffee table, then brought me closer to him. His embrace was nothing like Cap’s, or Lewis’s. He was lean and hard, and my skin ached to be next to his.
He must have heard my thought, for he unbuttoned his shirt and pulled my blouse up from my jeans and with a hand on my lower back, pressed my exposed belly skin to his. The contact was zinged with an electric vibration. I felt the quiver run through us both, and our breathing stopped for a moment. Then he pulled away and looked deeply at me. Slowly he began to unbutton my blouse while I sat there, gazing at his face, remembering the details, and he began to talk again.
“There’s something magic about skiing fast. Skiing so fast down the slopes that you’re afraid to fall.” His feather touch did away with my blouse quickly as the intensity of his passion grew. “It’s so exhilarating that you can’t stop, don’t want to stop, don’t want to fall.” His face began to change and his fingers became harder in his excitement. “Because if you fall, the ice crystals just might slice you to pieces. What a way to go, huh, Angelina? In a burst of orgasmic glory, a red smear on the slide of your favorite ski run.”
He was working on his own clothes now, my blouse off and jeans undone. We were leaning our way toward a horizontal position on the couch, incongruously warm with the huge cold eye of a window right in front of us, showing us winter in all its attendant splendor.
Suddenly he pinched me hard, bringing a bruise on my waist, then he lay me down on the couch and with one hand pulled my jeans to my knees, and his finger, hot and dry, probed into me and I cried out with the suddenness of it. He hesitated a moment, smiling at me with heat, then stood and shed the rest of his clothes, pulled the jeans from my legs, then scooped me up and carried me the length of the living room and into the bedroom beyond.
We lay together on the smooth comforter, our hands busy with each other, our mouths as well, tasting, licking, speaking in low, soft tones. It was choreographed beautifully; it felt as if we had danced together like this many times before.
Our legs entwined, then rearranged. He attempted to mount me, a move I parried with little difficulty, and we continued our dance, wrestling more and more intensely. The physical friction rose and our waltz became a match—a contest of two wills—testing, tasting, delaying, his frustration growing with each of my denials, my excitement exploding with each new emphasis of his frustration.
Our contest grew fiercer—pain became legal—and I felt one wrist and an ankle burn in skin friction as I twisted from his grasp.
Then the music rose in my ears, and it seemed as though it had been there all night, playing soft background accompaniment to our courtship, and now the volume rose with an appropriate shift in depth.
The musical strains were memorable, monumental, the arrangement was unique, it was ours, it lifted in chorus, building, building, the crescendo almost deafening, and I heard my part orchestrated, knew when it ceased to become a pas de deux and became a solo, and Fred flipped to his back. I sat astride his chest and gripped his pectoral muscles, fingers digging into his armpits, holding, holding, holding one final moment longer, and at the crash of cymbals, I saw the look on his face—the flash of questioning, the instant of knowing and the bit of regret, and I dove for the giant worm that pulsed just below his ear.
The lullaby that wove about my head as I drank was the sweetest, most innocent music I had ever heard. It told the story of peace and harmony and life and life after life. Fred quieted, and my breathing slowed. I sucked more, I was full, but he was so pure, so delicious, it was like fresh spring water on a hot day—I couldn’t bear to waste any. I wrapped my legs around his heavy limbs and hummed along with the lullaby, teasing the nipple of my nourishment with my teeth, and my hands roamed his hairy chest and massaged his facial muscles until they relaxed.
I closed my eyes and saw the torch skiers, criss-crossing the mountain. My face softened into a smile as I thought of Fred’s expression when he talked of skiing fast, so fast he was afraid to fall, and I knew the sensation. I felt the exhilaration, saw Death flying down the mountain by my side. I knew Fred in that moment, and I loved him.
It wasn’t until I felt in danger of sleeping that I noticed we had fallen to the floor in our violent struggle, and brought half the quilt down with us. I sat up and tickled the cold flesh with my fingertips as my passions cooled even further, and as I ran my fingertips over his knees, it happened again.
I broke through and saw Boyd.
I felt him looking out through my eyes, seeing what I saw, the beautiful, lean body of Fred Bertow, resting in the ultimate sleep, neck open and sore, quilt pulled cockeyed from the bed. And it wasn’t beautiful through Boyd’s eyes. It was pagan and disgusting.
Then it was soft again, and loving, and I turned inward, and looked directly into Boyd’s shocked and repulsed expression, and I said to him, “Do you love them before you kill them, Boyd? The defenseless animals you slaughter with automatic weapons? Do you give them pleasure, or at least a fair chance? Do you love them, Boyd? Do you love them like I do?” And then I began to laugh and I wiped my chin and felt the slippery ooze, and noticed that it had dripped down my front, between my breasts, and mixed in with my blonde pubic hair. And I laughed harder and harder, and then he was gone and I came back into the room, the silent bedroom, with just Fred and me, and I heard the dogs whining in the other room, and suddenly the humor disappeared.
It was as if I’d just awakened, and I was shocked at what I’d done. I was horrified. How had this happened? How could I have let this happen? Not only did I let it happen, but I pursued him. I made it happen.
My soul twisted inside me. Despair flooded in. I realized I had absolutely no control over my life. Everything I had done in the past months to keep the darkness from my life was all in vain. All in vain. All of it. I couldn’t believe I had killed again.
I was cold then, and afraid.
I arrived at work on time that night, but my mind was fogged and I slept off and on during my shift.
In the morning, I dragged myself around, and when eight o’clock finally came, I went to the Yacht Club to keep my breakfast date with Cap. I begged off, pleading exhaustion, but it was really shame that tired me so. He winked at me as if he understood that I’d had a wild night, and let me go.
The police didn’t come by for six days. By that time, Fred’s dogs had found the only thing there was for them to eat, mutilating what clues the police might have had as to cause of death. Since I was obviously the last to see him alive, the
y came to ask me if he had been complaining of indigestion or chest pains of any kind.
He had not, to me, and I told them this.
“I really began to rage out of control when I began to see Angelina, I mean actually see her.
“Angelina and I had some kind of weird connection. I can’t really describe it, it’s like . . .
“When I was a kid, we used to spend a lot of time calling people on the phone. Well, one girl’s phone number was always busy, but the rest of us discovered that if we shouted into the phone between the busy signal tones, we could talk to other people calling her number and hearing the same busy signal. It was like a weird conference call.
“Well, that’s kind of what it was like with Angelina and me. We just kind of fell into some sort of a void, like that place where the busy signal existed, and we saw each other. Sometimes I could see right out through her eyes, like bright little windows in the vast dark void, windows to the outside world.
“And, like that busy signal thing, I think there was more going on in there, but there was never enough time to look around. It always took me by surprise. And Angelina’d usually just done something . . . you know.
“The first time it happened, I almost shit. But then it began to happen more frequently. I had to quit my job. I was afraid it would happen when I was working with a saw or something. Or driving. I kind of quit driving. The connection lasted for only a second or two. Just long enough to shock me, I guess. I don’t know why. I don’t think Angelina did it on purpose; I think she was just as shocked as I was.
“I soon got tired of looking at her victims and listening to her lunacy, and I started looking for clues as to where she was. I mostly just stayed home and waited for it to happen again so I could concentrate on what else I could see from her point of view—a landmark, a street sign, anything. I stayed home and waited for word of strange murders on TV, in the papers, on the wire service. I lived for clues to her whereabouts.
Black Ambrosia Page 12
