Tag recognized it at once. He stopped running. Took his hand away from the pistol. “Mabel,” he said.
She smiled by raising her lip. More of a canine snarl than human smile. From the look of her mouth, her missing teeth were the lucky ones. She rolled until she was sitting up, her back against the door. She straightened the dress over her thick thighs.
“I come to see you, babes,” she murmured.
“How did you find me?”
“Got your name offa your name tag, you know? Got it right offa your tag. That little plastic gadget on your uniform. Then I looked you up.”
“What for?”
“ ‘Cause you’re my kinda guy. Give a gal a lift, would ya?” She reached out her hand. Tag didn’t want to touch the blotchy mitt. Refusing would be awkward, though. Besides, he felt sorry for Mabel. She was forty years old and lived with her mother, a slovenly woman who could pass for Mabel’s old sister if she stood on the kind side of the streetlight, that was. Last week, Mabel ran into half a dozen members of the Braves, a Pony League team sponsored by a local hardware store. It started with name-calling. Ended with a gang-bang.
“When did they let you out of the hospital?” Tag asked. Taking the offered hand, he helped her up.
“Yesterday. First thing I says to myself, I says ‘Mabel, that nice Officer Parker is your kinda guy.’ So I looked you up and come right over here just to see ya. Ya gonna let a girl in?”
“I have to go out tonight, Mabel.”
“I’ll go with you, hmmm?”
He opened his door. “Can’t,” he said.
She followed him into his apartment, gave it a quick inspection with dreamy Demerol eyes, and whistled. “Say, this is some nice place.”
“Thank you.”
“Won’t hurt me at all, waiting here. Hmm?”
“Waiting?”
“Sure. You come back, I’ll show you a time and a half, babes.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Mabel.” He went into the kitchen. Mabel didn’t follow, so he quickly took a handful of sliced salami and American cheese from his refrigerator, stuffed it all into a baggie, and hurried back to the living room.
Mabel’s dress lay on the floor.
She was on the couch, naked but for black briefs and a red brassiere that barely cupped all she had to offer. Leering, she let her tongue slide over her thick lips. The other hand stroked a thick, blotched thigh. Cellulite rippled.
“Aw, Mabel.”
“Put it right here,” she said. “Come on, babes, don’t be shy.”
Geez. Shyness had little to do with it.
“I really shouldn’t,” Tag said, trying to look only at her face. “You’re not ready for those kind of games just yet.”
“I’m tougher than I look. Come on, Tag, hold me tight for a little. I won’t bite.”
“No, maybe not, but I’d wager there’s plenty in that tangle of hair that’d bite good and hard.”
“Babes,” she cooed. “I can take you places you’ve never been before.”
Damned right. The clap clinic. Front of the queue. Pants down.
“I’m sorry, Mabel.” He picked up her dress and tossed it to her. “Thanks for your kind offer, but I have an important class tonight. Now get dressed. I’ll walk you downstairs.”
“I ain’t good enough for you, that it?”
“No, that’s not it. I’m in a hurry, that’s all.”
“I could have shown you a real good time. Hot and spicy, you dig?”
“I appreciate the offer.”
“Well, I’m staying put till you give me the goodies. Hmm?”
Tag groaned. He couldn’t leave, not with Mabel still in the apartment. The alternative? Tease those black panties down over her thighs, then… oh, man, no. She wasn’t a bad person, just more than a little mad.
Mad. Sad. Horny. Hell, what a combination. “Do you want some money?”
“What do you want me to do for money?”
“Nothing.”
“I’d do anything for you for free, babes.”
“Mabel, listen to me, I’ll give you money.”
“What for?”
“To leave,” he said. Blunt, okay, and he saw the pain in her eyes. “I’m sorry, but I have no intention of making out with you. I have an important place I have to be in about five minutes. I’m already going to be late and I can’t leave till you’re out of here, so please get dressed and go.”
“I ain’t good enough for you, that’s it. I ain’t pretty and cultivated like that whore downstairs.”
He glared, but said nothing.
“Sure… sure, I know all about you and her; how you stayed at her place last night, and me waiting for you here all cold and lonesome.”
“You’re the one.”
“She’s a scrawny nothing, babes. You just climb on here.”
“You’re the one who did it.”
“You’re not gonna believe what I can do with my tongue.”
“You flattened her tire, didn’t you?”
“Me? Not me. No sir, Officer.”
“That was a rotten thing to do, Mabel. Now get your dress on or I’ll run you in.”
“What for?” A brassiere strap slipped, exposing a fat brown nipple.
“Indecent exposure.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“That’s right,” Tag said. “Maybe a little trespass too.”
“Okay, okay.” Mabel hoisted up the strap cupping the dollop of breast. “Hand me up my dress, will you?”
As Tag crouched beside the sofa to pick up the pile of dirty cloth, Mabel grabbed him. She tugged his arm. Off balance, he fell onto her. Her arms clutched him tightly. Those hefty breasts felt like twin cushions against him. Sour breath rushed into his face. Her arms clutched him.
“Mabel!” he snapped. “Damn it, you’d better…!”
Her mouth pressed against his. Her tongue prodded his tightly sealed lips. Something warm and wet dribbled down his chin.
Trying to push away, his hands sank into those twin mounds of soft flesh beneath the brassiere. She moaned with excitement. “Oh, that’s it, babes…”
“Mabel… let go…”
Mabel rolled. Both tumbled onto the floor.
“Get…”
Her thick tongue penetrated his mouth. The sour-milk odor made him gag. A hand pushed roughly under his belt, searching…
“No!”
He jerked his head back sharply, gasping for clean air. At the same moment, he tugged the roving hand from out of his pants and bent it backward at the wrist until Mabel cried out. Using the hand for leverage, he forced her to roll off. He stood up, still keeping the hand bent.
“Okay,” he panted. “On your feet.”
He helped her by twisting the arm.
“Bastard!” she cried out. “Cocksucker!”
“Shut up, Mabel.”
“Motherfu—” She yelped in pain as he gave the arm a quick turn.
“I said shut up.”
Using the twisted arm, he steered her toward the door. “I don’t want any more trouble from you, do you understand? I want you to go home.”
“No, I want—”
“I want you to go home and never pull this kind of stunt again. If you bother Susan or me, know what I’ll do?”
“What?”
“I’ll tell your mother.”
She jerked her head sideways and glared at him. “You better not.”
“I will.”
“You better not,” she repeated. This time frightened.
“You be a good girl from now on, or I will.”
“All I wanted was to be nice to you. That’s all I wanted. What’s wrong with that?”
“The way you went about it. Now, I’ll let go of you and I want you to get dressed, then go straight home. Okay?”
“Okay.” Her swollen lips formed a sulky pout.
He let go of her arm. She leaned heavily against the door, arms hanging at her sides, head down, mess of hair dangling
across her eyes. Tag turned away. He picked up her dress, handed it to her, and turned his face away as she hauled it over herself. Then he opened the door.
He watched her walk slowly down the hall. Thirty years ago she’d have been a cute kid. Nice. Friendly. Polite in class. At night she’d have heard her mother going down on any guy with a dollar in the next room. It’s hard to grow up decent… hard to grow up sane… after a childhood like that. “Good-bye, Mabel. You take care of yourself, do you hear?”
She looked over her shoulder. He saw tears on her face. Sniffing loudly, she wiped her nose with the back of her hand, turned sadly away.
Tag shut the door. Locked it.
He glanced at his wristwatch.
Too late to bother with the damned class.
Feeling tired and bruised and dirty… like something thirty years dead had just crawled over his face… he went to the bathroom, turned on the shower. When it was scalding he stood under it, his face up to receive the driving jets.
CHAPTER THREE
April Vallsarra, hands resting on the stone balustrade, enjoyed the cooling breeze playing against her cheek after the heat of the day.
She loved to stand here at night. The air was cool. She took pleasure from the sound of the crickets. The scent of the wildflowers out in the woods reached into her, calming her.
She listened to the music the trees made as air currents ran along the canyon. The surging hiss that would fall away to a whisper. It reminded her of the time she lived in the beach house with her father. The sound of the surf. Especially at night when she lay warm and safe in her bed. Then the waves would surge across the beach.
She stood listening to the sounds in the outside world. The breeze moved across the rooftop terrace, swirled round her bare calves and ankles, tugged at her dress, at her hair.
Often she tried to imagine what those trees looked like. They would move, she decided, like she’d heard how herds of elephants move. She could never know exactly, of course. She’d been born blind. Had had to leave home at six years old to attend a school for the blind in San Francisco. That’s when her world fell apart. Her parents’ marriage broke up. Her mother moved to Canada and she never heard from her again.
She was so miserable at school that at the age of eleven she tried to take her own life. Tying a noose from panty hose, she knotted it to the shower rail and jumped off the edge of the tub. The rail didn’t take her weight; it snapped; she fell to the bathroom floor and broke her wrist.
Her father was the one who saved her.
After a long talk in the hospital as she waited for her arm to receive the cast, he realized how unhappy she was at the school.
He brought her home.
It wasn’t to the beach house, though.
The new home was here in the canyon. In one of the passes that snaked between Hollywood and Burbank. Even though you were in the midst of three million people, here was an oasis of calm.
The canyon contained no other houses. Only this one. Her father built the house to his own design. His “sneakaway,” he called it. It was two-storied, built of brick. There was a huge rooftop terrace where her father could barbecue the biggest steaks. Where he could host the coolest parties that were the talk of L.A. The guest list would read like the contents of Rolling Stone magazine.
By day her father recorded music in his own studio in the basement. And geez, what a studio. John Lennon, dropping by for cocktails, had announced, “Sweet God in heaven, you could put the London Philharmonic Orchestra in here and still have room for the bloody performing elephants.”
The wind sighed in the trees. April tilted her head to one side. The air played on her neck, toying with her hair.
A beautiful place. Peaceful.
Away from everyone. Away from city noise and smog.
She considered what she could have for supper. A salad with shrimp. An ice-cold glass of white wine. Yes, that would be nice.
For a second she thought she heard the scrunch of a foot on the gravel path.
“Dad?”
The word reached her lips before she could stop it.
No.
Couldn’t be.
Her father was dead. Shot by a pair of thugs he’d found breaking into his car. He’d been staying in a motel coming back from Nashville. He’d glanced out the window, seen the two morons cracking open his car like a moneybox. When he’d gone out to challenge them, one had pulled a pistol and…
Her hands tightened on the balustrade.
No. Not tonight.
She wouldn’t replay the incident. That was ten years ago.
So now I’m here alone. She’d no soon as thought the word alone than the sound came again.
Feet on gravel.
But who’s there at this time? No one would make the long drive out of town up here to see me in the middle of the night.
“Hello, who’s there?”
Her blind eyes moved as if looking down onto the driveway below. She listened.
The wind cried through the trees. Leaves rustled.
“Anyone there?”
No answer. But the sound of a zipper being pulled slowly down.
“There is someone there.” Her heart raced. “What do you want?”
She listened again, heart pounding.
What if it’s an intruder?
I’m all alone here.
Lettie came out during the day to bring her groceries, help her clean the house, and keep her company for a while. But Lettie was long gone now. Maybe she should phone—
That sound again. Feet on gravel.
Slowly she backed away from the balustrade toward the center of the roof terrace. It was dark. Yet she knew sighted people still might be able to see her standing on top of the house. Here in the center, though, she’d be out of sight.
But what if they should break in?
Nothing she could do would stop them then. Even if she could reach the phone, it would take a while for the police to reach this remote part of the canyon.
She was twenty-eight years old. Men had told her how pretty she was. That her shoulder-length hair was glossy. She had a slim figure. Tanned arms and legs.
So whoever broke into the house might not be here for money or the TV.
But her.
A scrunching sound came again. Maybe they were trying to find a window without a steel shutter or an unlocked door.
Her father had been thorough. All the downstairs windows were sealed with steel mesh. After all, she didn’t require daylight. Or any light, come to that.
The doors were of hardwood. The locks substantial. What’s more, each one was covered by a wrought-iron screen.
Maybe they would try and climb up the wall? They’d find me alone on the roof.
Now in the open she felt vulnerable. She wished she had a companion to share her home. Someone strong to keep her safe.
She backed into a potted shrub. The leaves prickled her hip through the flimsy material of her dress.
She caught her breath.
Stay calm… stay calm. He cannot climb up here. I’m safe.
But was she?
April reached the barbecue and crouched down beside it, her arms clasped around her knees, trying to make herself small as possible.
For a long time she waited, hunched beneath the night sky. For a while the sounds beyond the house haunted her. She imagined a man scaling the outside wall with a ladder. Or finding an unshuttered window. She imagined the sound of footsteps. She even gasped out loud as she imagined rough hands on her. A fist grabbing her hair, another hand finding her breasts. The sound of the man’s hoarse panting.
Shaking, her breath coming in frightened tugs, she waited and waited.
At last, when she heard no more sounds, she felt her way back down to her bedroom.
“Please, God,” she whispered after she climbed into bed. “Please bring me a companion. Please bring someone to me. I don’t want to be lonely anymore.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Barn
ey Quinn, night watchman, didn’t care much for the museum. It always seemed too damned stuffy, as if every piece of ancient junk was quietly giving off a stink. Going home in the morning, he smelled the same stink on himself. An old-tomb stink. The stink of three-thousand-year-old skulls.
The same stink oozed from those shitty old stone statues in the Greek collection. Jesus H. Pretty soon, if he didn’t watch out, he’d turn into one himself. And wouldn’t that be dandy? Every last one of those buggers had an arm off, or a head, or even a pecker.
They’ll open up one fine morning and say, “Where’s old Barney Quinn?” Wouldn’t find him till they looked in the Greek room and counted up the statues. One too many. And here’s a statue in a shitty brown uniform. Maybe they’d just leave him standing there, save his family the price of a funeral. Spend that insurance on a new TV. Damn squat for old Barney Quinn. Leave him here in the statue morgue until some clumsy cleaner knocks his pecker clean off. RIP old Barney Quinn.
“Shit,” he muttered.
Needed some fresh air. Needed some time outta here. Besides, it was about time to visit George.
Crossing the lobby, he went to a metal fire door, shoved it open. The landing was lighted by a bulb over the door. He started down the stairs. Damn, the light at the next landing was out. He stepped down into the darkness. At the bottom, he pushed open the outer door. He stepped outside and leaned against the door, propping it open with his back.
The employees’ parking lot was empty except for his old Grand Prix. Used to be a good car. Used to be his pride and joy back when he bought it. Everything was good in those days. Before the brass got wind of the Fun House and kicked his ass off the force.
Well, shit, can’t win ‘em all, can ya?
He lit a cigarette. As he dragged on it, filling his lungs with sweet blue tobacco smoke that went a-tingling and a-singing to his fingertips, he saw the dog near the edge of the lot. Old George, right on time. Pinching the cigarette between his lips, he crouched and clapped his hands. “Here, boy,” he called. “Come on. Come to Barney.”
The dog loped toward him, its collar tags jangling.
“Yeah, there’s a good guy.”
TO WAKE THE DEAD Page 3
