Funland

by Richard Laymon

  “Not a nice guy,” Joan said, looking and sounding more like her usual self.

  “Not nice at all. And then he tries to mow me down with a goddamn submachine gun. And I drop the hammer on him, and the guilt turns me into a basket case. I was messed up for months. Makes no sense at all.”

  “Makes sense to me. Now.”

  “That’s how I ended up here. Small town, I figured it’d be peaceful, you know? And it generally is. It’s no L.A. What brought you here?”

  “A family move. Mom married a poet who’d been out here for a writers’ convention and couldn’t wait to get back. You know how artsy this place is.”

  “The town’s schizophrenic,” Dave said.

  “You noticed, huh? Downtown thinks it’s Carmel, and the south end’s a mecca for rednecks.”

  “And you throw in the military for some extra color.” He remembered the way she’d acted with the sailors yesterday. “Were you in the Navy or something?”

  “My dad was. We lost him in Vietnam. The Mekong Delta. He was a gunner on a patrol boat.” She took another drink of champagne. “Anyway, so Mom had this thing with the poet, and she moved us out here. That was three years ago. I got started on a master’s program in library science at the university…”

  “You, a librarian?”

  With the back of her wrist, she knocked him gently in the arm. “You got a problem with that, tough guy?”

  “Hard to picture you. How did a future librarian end up a cop?”

  “Mom and her poet pulled a disappearing act. I needed a job, and I met some cops during the investigation. Beth Lanier and I hit it off pretty well. She’s the one who put the idea into my head. The rest is history.”

  “How come I didn’t know about all this?” Dave asked.

  “Never asked.” Smiling, Joan took his empty glass, set it on the table with hers, and drained the bottle into them. She started to open the second bottle.

  “I was here when you joined the force,” Dave said. “Nobody ever said anything about your mother disappearing.”

  “Lone Wolf Carson? There’s probably a lot of stuff you never heard about. Everybody but you musta knew.” She laughed softly. “Known,” she corrected herself.

  She aimed the cork at the rocking chair where the first had landed, and shot it. This time, foam began to gush from the bottle. “Whoa shit!” she gasped. The white froth tumbled into the glasses, filling them both too fast, and kept rolling out, so she swung the overflowing bottle up to her mouth and gulped the suds.

  “Don’t choke yourself,” Dave warned, laughing. He leaned forward and watched her throat work, watched champagne trickle down her chin and neck, down her wrist and forearm, watched the bottom of the bottle drip onto her leg and dress.

  It was no longer erupting when she lowered it and sighed. She made a silent burp. Her face went red and she looked downward. “Gosh, I’m sorry.”

  “No sweat.”

  She rubbed her wet thigh and spread her legs and peered down at the upholstery. “Don’t think I got any on your couch,” she muttered.

  Dave joined her in looking, but didn’t notice the upholstery. He saw only her smooth inner thighs and glimpsed her pink panties and felt a sudden swell of desire and turned his head away.

  “Don’t worry about the couch,” he said, his voice coming out a little shaky. “I’ll get you some paper towels.”

  “Thanks. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t worry.” He pushed himself up, wincing slightly as a burning sensation reminded him of his wound, then hurried into the kitchen and pulled a yard of paper towels off the roll beside the sink.

  When he came back into the room, Joan was standing. She looked up at him, a self-disgusted smirk on her face. The front of her white dress was blotchy with wet spots that gave the fabric a slightly gray coloring.

  She shook her head as she took the towels from him. Instead of using them on herself, she wadded them into a huge ball and picked up the champagne bottle and dried it, then got down on her knees and lifted the glasses out of the puddle and wiped their bases and moved them to a dry spot and mopped the table’s surface.

  Dave almost told her not to bother. It was an old table and the champagne wouldn’t hurt it anyway. But he kept his mouth shut and watched her.

  This was a Joan with all her toughness gone.

  She stood up, the wad of towels in her hand. “Want to point me to a wastebasket?” she asked.

  Dave stepped around the table and took the wet clump from her. He tossed it onto the table. He put his hands on her shoulders. He looked into her eyes.

  She shook her head. “I’d better go.”

  He said nothing. He eased her forward, and Joan wrapped her arms around him. Her smooth cheek slid against the side of his face. He felt the tickle of her breath on his ear, and he whispered, “You’re taller than me,” and he felt her laugh—gusts of warm air on his ear, her back shaking just a bit under his hands, her belly pulsing against his, her breasts moving slightly with her laughter, rubbing his chest.

  She squeezed him hard, and he winced. “Ouch,” she gasped. “I’m sorry.”

  He pushed a hand up into her thick hair and turned her head, turned her mouth toward his, pressed his mouth to her open lips, felt their softness and wetness, felt her breath enter him.

  The doorbell rang and Joan lurched back and looked at Dave, her eyes wide and questioning.

  He shook his head.

  Joan ran a forearm across her slick mouth.

  The bell rang again.

  “Gloria?” she whispered.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You got a back door?”

  “Forget it. Sit down and have a drink.”

  “God, Dave.”

  “I won’t have you sneaking out.”

  “I shouldn’t be here.”

  “Yes you should. Sit down, relax.”

  Grimacing, she bent over the table and picked up her glass. She took it to the rocking chair. She flinched as the doorbell rang again. Quickly she grabbed the two corks off the cushion, straightened her dress, and sat down.

  Dave went to the door and opened it.

  He forced himself to smile.

  “How are you feeling?” Gloria asked, glancing at his chest, then gazing up into his eyes.

  “Not bad.”

  She stepped into the doorway, leaned against him, wrapped her arms around his back, and tipped her face up for a kiss.

  Dave didn’t want to kiss her. He didn’t like the way she clung to him. She felt small and bony and tense, and she was hugging him too hard.

  He wondered if Joan was watching.

  Probably not, he thought. She was probably sitting in that rocker with her eyes turned in the other direction and wishing she were anywhere else.

  He kissed Gloria on the mouth. Her lips were cool and stiff, but they parted and she thrust her tongue into his mouth with a nervous urgency that chilled him.

  He backed away. Her eyes looked stunned, annoyed. “What’s gotten into…?”

  “Joan’s here,” he said, and watched Gloria’s mouth snap shut. “Come on in.”

  “Oh. Oh?” She made a tight, curled smile and stepped past him.

  Joan rose from the chair. “I just dropped by for a minute to bring our conquering hero some medication.” A smile on her face (a smile that, to Dave, seemed sick with guilt), she raised her nearly empty glass for Gloria to see that the medication was champagne.

  “That was very thoughtful of you,” Gloria said.

  Dave saw that Joan had raised the zipper of her dress a few inches higher. The moist spots on the fabric hadn’t quite gone away. They were faint, though.

  “I’ll get another glass,” Dave said.

  “Are you sure I’m not interrupting?” Gloria asked.

  Joan shook her head.

  Dave rushed into the kitchen. He reached into the cupboard with his left hand this time, and managed not to awaken his pain as he took down a wineglass.

 
When he returned to the living room, Gloria was seated on the couch. Where Joan had been sitting.

  Could she feel Joan’s warmth on the cushion?

  So what if she can? Dave told himself.

  She sat stiffly, hands folded on her lap, eyes darting from Joan to Dave.

  He didn’t want to think about what she must be feeling right now.

  He took the glass to the table and lifted the champagne bottle. “Just a dab,” Gloria said. “Besides, I see there’s not much left.”

  “We’ve been knocking it back pretty good,” Dave said, hoping to lighten the situation. Gloria arched an eyebrow. He filled her glass halfway to the top before she stopped him.

  He turned toward Joan with the bottle. She shook her head. “No more for me, thanks. I really should be getting home.”

  “Oh, don’t rush off on my account,” Gloria said.

  “Debbie and I usually eat about now.” She stood up. “Are you going to take tomorrow off, Dave?”

  “No, I’ll be in.”

  “Can’t keep a good man down,” Gloria said.

  Dave set down the bottle and walked Joan to the door. “Thanks for coming by,” he said. “The medication helped.” He stepped onto the porch with her, but left the door open for Gloria’s sake.

  “Sorry if I made trouble for you,” Joan whispered.

  “You didn’t.”

  “Don’t bet on it.”

  He wanted to hold her. He kept his hands at his sides. “Take it easy, huh?”

  “You too.”

  He watched her walk to her car. Then, with a sigh, he entered the house and closed the door.

  “You two must’ve had quite a party,” Gloria said.

  “We had a tough day. Both of us.”

  “Did you enjoy consoling one another?”

  He leaned over the table and filled his glass with champagne. He took it to the rocker.

  “Oh, that’s nice. Keep your distance.”

  “You’re in a lousy mood.”

  “Oh, and I should be delighted to walk in and find Joan here, half-smashed?”

  A few choice disclaimers ran through Dave’s mind: it’s not what you think; nothing happened; there’s no reason to be jealous.

  Lies.

  “What was I supposed to do?” he asked. “Send her away?”

  “And miss out on the sheer pleasure of her company? I hardly think so.”

  “She doesn’t come in and start giving me a hard time.”

  “Oh, I suspect she gave you a very hard time. I saw that cute little dress she was wearing. I saw the guilt on her face…and yours. What were you doing before I put in my untimely appearance? More than drinking, I should imagine.”

  “Don’t push it, Gloria.”

  “Oh, I touched a nerve?”

  “I got stabbed today. I’m really not in any mood for one of your scenes.”

  “Didn’t she kiss it and make it all better?”

  “What’s happened to you?”

  “To me?” Her eyebrows darted high.

  “You’ve turned into a real bitch. All of a sudden, the past couple of weeks, you’ve been acting like your chief goal in life is to give me grief. If it isn’t my eating habits, it’s my politics. If it isn’t that, you’re giving me shit about Joan. I’m sick of it.”

  “And I’m sick of her. Has that occurred to you as a possibility? It’s not enough you spend eight hours a day with your golden girl, you insist upon inflicting her on me all the time. It’s Joan did this, Joan said that. We even had her to a goddamn barbecue so you wouldn’t be deprived of her presence on your day off.”

  “Calm down.”

  “Do you know how many times we’ve fucked since she came into the picture?”

  Dave didn’t answer. He took a drink of champagne.

  “Not once. Not once!”

  “Well…”

  “You’ve been putting it to her all along, haven’t you? Haven’t you!”

  “I think you should leave now.”

  “You and that slut have been—”

  “Shut up!” He lurched to his feet and pointed at the door. “Get out. I’ve had enough.”

  Gloria sprang up, glaring at him, shaking her head. “Oh, this is cute. This is very cute.” Back rigid, she walked toward the door. “So long, Gloria,” she said, not looking back. Her voice was a quiet, lilting singsong. “Ta-ta. I had my fun with you, time to throw you away. You’re no match for the golden Amazon bitch. Ta-ta. Fuck off, now, there’s a good girl.”

  “Wait,” Dave said.

  He didn’t want her to wait; he wanted her gone, but not like this. It shouldn’t end this way, Gloria jabbering about being discarded like trash, sounding like a madwoman.

  She opened the door.

  “Gloria.”

  She stopped. She turned around and raised her eyebrows. “Did the pig speak? Is it sorry? Is it feeling guilty? And what does the pig have to say?”

  Forget it, he thought. What he said was, “Oink.”

  Seventeen

  Instead of calling it quits at six, as she had done yesterday, Robin took a short break. She ate a hot dog, then stationed herself above the main stairs to the beach and resumed playing and singing.

  It hardly seemed worth the effort.

  Few people had remained at Funland after the fog rolled in, and even fewer seemed willing to stand around and listen to her music. She was cold herself. Though the windbreaker kept her top warm, the chill, moist air seemed to soak through her jeans. She couldn’t play with gloves on. Between songs, she tucked her hands into the warmth under her armpits.

  As she stood there in the cold, playing for two or three people and sometimes gaining a quarter for her efforts, her mind wandered to all the places she would rather be. Warm places. A café, the movie theater, her sleeping bag. She even imagined herself checking into a motel and settling into a bathtub full of hot, hot water.

  But she had to be here instead. Thanks to Poppinsack.

  Working for a few coins to build up her stake. So she could afford warm places, so tomorrow or the day after, she could afford to hit the road out of this nest of bums, thieves, and trollers.

  All day she’d been keeping a lookout for the fat old man in the buckskin jacket and feathered derby.

  He must’ve made himself scarce, just in case she had ignored his advice to flee town.

  While her hands were busy playing a Stephen Foster medley (though she realized she had no audience at the moment), her mind replayed the scene she had already imagined so many times.

  She is crouched out of sight and Poppinsack comes staggering over the crest of the moon-washed dune. He sees her and doffs his hat. “Ah-ha, we meet again. How do you fare, Cockless Robin?” Pretending he’s glad to see her. And coming down the slope.

  She stands and pulls her knife on him. “You’ve got something that belongs to me, you thieving rat.”

  “Nonsense. Balderdash.”

  “Turn your pockets out,” she snaps.

  “You do me wrong, lassie. ’Twas’t Poppinsack dipped into your dainties and snatched the treasure.”

  “Don’t try it!” she suddenly shouted, clamping her hands over the banjo strings as a wino lurched in from the side, crouched beside her case, and clawed out a folded dollar bill. “Hey!” She took a step toward him, but he lurched away, spun around, and ran, his long coat flapping behind him.

  Robin stood there watching him flee, wanting to go after him. If she left her things here…

  The bum tried to run past a man coming down the boardwalk. The man swung an arm up. The bum’s face hit it. He flopped onto his back. The man stepped on his wrist, bent down, and took the bill. When he lifted his foot off the wrist, the bum scurried toward the side of the boardwalk, rolled under the railing, and dropped out of sight.

  The man came toward her, holding up the dollar and smiling. Robin saw that he wasn’t very old, maybe eighteen. He wore jeans and a plaid shirt, and his hair was short. He looked athletic and clean
-cut, the kind of guy you might find wearing a varsity letter sweater in the halls of a high school.

  “Here you go,” he said, and gave the dollar to her.

  “Thanks.” Robin stuffed it into a pocket of her windbreaker. “You didn’t have to go to all that trouble.”

  “No trouble. It’s always a pleasure to clothesline a guy who’ll stoop to stealing from a woman.”

  “Name’s Robin,” she said, and held her hand out.

  “Nate,” he told her, shaking it.

  His hand felt warm and strong.

  “How’s business?” he asked.

  “Booming,” Robin said, and swept an arm toward her huge invisible audience.

  “That’s how it is, usually, when the fog’s in. I went ahead and closed up early.”

  “You work here?”

  “Sure.” He gestured behind himself with a thumb. “Have you checked out the arcade?”

  “Huh-uh.”

  “Well, if you had, I’m the guy who would’ve given you change.”

  “I’m the gal who wouldn’t have needed any. I’ve got quarters up the…I get a lot of quarters.”

  “The way you sing and play, you oughta be on a stage getting twenty bucks a head.”

  “Well, thanks.”

  “I’ve been listening from the arcade. Couldn’t make out the lyrics too well, but you sure play a mean banjo. I’ve never heard anything like it.”

  Robin smiled and shrugged.

  “Matter of fact, it isn’t right for me to enjoy it that much and not shell out.” He reached to his rear pocket and took a wallet out.

  “No. Please. You nailed that bum for me…”

  “I insist.” He took out a twenty-dollar bill.

  “No. Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “I don’t want to force it on you.”

  “Then put it away. Please.”

  “I tell you what. Suppose you sing a song for me, and I’ll throw a buck or something into your case.”

  “I guess that’s fair enough.”

  She took a couple of steps backward and began to play for her audience of one. As she picked the quick, bouncy lead-in, she saw a smile spread across his face. His head bobbed with the rhythm, and Robin began to sing: