Cuts

by Richard Laymon

“Another?” she asked.

  “Not just yet. You know the woman I was with?”

  “The redhead?”

  “Yeah. She went to the ladies’ room…must’ve been half an hour ago. Do you suppose you’d mind checking on her? I’m a little worried something might be wrong.”

  “Sure, I’ll check.”

  When the barmaid returned, she was shaking her head and holding her palms upward. “Your friend isn’t there now, sir. I’m sorry.”

  He frowned and muttered, “That’s odd.”

  “Kinda.”

  “She’s gone?”

  “Guess so. Sorry.”

  “Okay. Well, thanks.”

  “Hope you find her.”

  “Thanks.”

  When Lester got home, he followed the quick, flat tapping sounds to the spare room and found Helen typing a ditto master. “Sorry I’m late,” he said.

  She continued to type for several seconds. Then she squinted at the page. Then she looked around at him and asked, “What?”

  “I said, ‘Sorry I’m late.’ ”

  “Oh.” She looked at her wristwatch. “God, it’s almost seven! I must’ve lost track of…I’ve got to change and get ready.”

  “Ready for what?”

  “My U. C.L. A. seminar.”

  “A seminar?”

  “I told you about it. ‘Fundamentals of Adolescent Dysfunction.’ ”

  “Great.”

  “You don’t have to act that way. These things move me up on the pay scale, you know.”

  “I know. You keep telling me.”

  “Shit, you’re in a crappy mood.” She removed the ditto master from her typewriter. “There’s taco casserole in the freezer, if you’re interested.”

  “Thanks.”

  THIRTEEN

  TRAVELING MAN

  Albert drove through downtown Kansas City until he found a Holiday Inn. He liked Holiday Inns. The one in St. Louis, where he had spent Sunday and Monday compliments of Milton Shadwick, had been very big and comfortable. So comfortable that he’d conked out, Sunday night, and had slept till noon.

  Well rested Monday afternoon, he had forged Milton’s name on two traveler’s checks and paid for the night in advance. He’d eaten a steak sandwich, onion rings and fries at the motel cafe. Then, with three of Milton’s cigars in his shirt pocket, he’d set out to explore St. Louis.

  Forest Park was warm and pleasant. He smoked a cigar beside the pond, then walked through the zoo. It wasn’t much compared to the Brookfield in Chicago, but he enjoyed watching the monkeys.

  And the women.

  The zoo was thick with women, some alone; some with girl friends, a few with men, many pushing baby carriages and trying to keep track of two or three eager kids.

  He only paid attention to the lone ones. Most were plain. Not ugly, just plain—the sort of girls he’d dated on those rare occasions, like the Junior Dance, when he’d needed to save his self-respect. Nothing to lose any sleep over.

  Nothing to waste an afternoon over.

  Not when you’ve got a knife.

  He was beginning to think about dinner when a good one appeared. Maybe twenty-five years old, long blond hair that streamed behind her in the breeze, and a slender figure. She wore white slacks that hugged her rear end and thighs. Her flowered blouse was tied in front, leaving her midriff bare.

  Albert followed her through the zoo. She was a fast walker, never slowing down and never turning her head to look at anything except, twice, her wristwatch.

  Her slacks fit so tightly that he could see the outlines of her bikini-style underwear. The tight seat reminded him of Mrs. Broxton in the grocery store.

  He wished he’d taken more time with Mrs. Broxton Saturday night. Much more time. After all, what was the big hurry? If he hadn’t killed her all at once like that, he could’ve had a lot more fun with her. Maybe tied her up and…

  The woman in the tight pants waved at a man in front of the Jefferson Memorial building. The man waved back, smiling. Albert stopped. He stripped cellophane off one of his cigars and watched the woman hurry to the man, embrace him and walk with him through the door.

  Albert muttered, “Shit.”

  He lit up his cigar and returned to the zoo. He waited an hour, but no one interesting appeared so he left.

  He drove across town and found a restaurant with a good view of the Gateway Arch and the river. The hostess seated him beside a window. When he ordered knockwurst and sauerkraut and a stein of beer, the waiter asked to see identification. He had to pass on the beer.

  After dinner, he drove around the area looking for a movie theater. He wanted to find himself a good horror movie or two, but he couldn’t find any. He had to settle for a Charles Bronson movie and a long, dull film about a Mafia double-cross.

  Then he returned to the Holiday Inn. The television worked okay. He watched Johnny Carson until he fell asleep.

  All in all, he’d had a pleasant time in St. Louis. But not very exciting. Not a single score. Of course, he hadn’t tried very hard.

  Here in Kansas City, he would try damn hard.

  After checking into the motel on Tuesday afternoon, Albert took a shower. He tried to shave with his knife, but it only smoothed down his light whiskers. He decided to try Milton’s injector razor. It was crusted and gooey with bits of gray whisker clinging to the blade.

  “The slob,” Albert muttered.

  But he shaved with it, anyway, and nicked himself once. When he finished, his face felt smooth. It looked much the same as before, however, and he wondered why he ever bothered to shave at all.

  He ate a cheeseburger in the motel coffee shop and washed it down with a chocolate milk shake. Then he began to drive. He drove south until he found a section of town with nice, two-story homes. For a long time, he cruised the area. He didn’t know exactly what he was looking for, but he figured he would recognize it when he found it.

  There it is.

  A supermarket.

  He parked in its lot and climbed out of his car. As he walked to the store, the chilly wind flapped his parka behind him like a cape. Apparently, the October heat wave was over—or he’d left it behind in St. Louis. He pulled his parka shut and zipped it.

  The market’s automatic door flew open. He hurried inside, escaping the wind.

  One of the front wheels of the shopping cart wobbled. He took a different cart. It was more rusty than the first and held a torn corner of lettuce leaf, but all the wheels worked fine.

  The first aisle to the left seemed like the best place to begin. Start there and work toward the right until he’d covered the entire store. That way, he would be sure to see all the women.

  And there were plenty in this place.

  Housewives with hair wound up tightly in curlers, most of them looking chunky and dumb. Slim women in well-tailored outfits probably picking up dinner on the way home from work, their faces stiff and merciless. Old women who walked carefully, holding tightly to their carts. And a few who were different.

  One, maybe thirty, seemed very sure of herself. She left her cart at the end of each aisle, walked briskly to several areas of shelving where she grabbed items without a moment’s hesitation, and returned with them in her arms. Her wire-rimmed, rectangular glasses and jutting chin made her seem almost masculine, but she had gentle eyes with delicate, arching brows.

  Not her. She made him curious, but she wasn’t the type he wanted.

  Another, in jeans and an army shirt, was more like it. She walked by him with her hands stuffed inside her pockets and a bottle of red wine tucked under one arm. Her breasts were large and swung loose inside her shirt. She walked with a sensual sway as if she wanted everyone to know she had space available between her legs.

  Albert pushed his cart behind her, watching the seat of her faded jeans. A red patch, shaped like lips, was sewn over one rear pocket. When she stopped to choose a package of cheese, Albert pushed his cart around her. He turned his head as he walked by and glimpsed, in a
space between two shirt buttons, the white skin of a breast.

  That’s when his cart bumped a girl whose back was turned.

  She sucked a quick, sharp breath, hopped forward and started to reach down. Then, apparently deciding that her injured tendon didn’t hurt enough to need clutching, she straightened up.

  “I’m awfully sorry,” Albert said.

  “It’s okay,” she said.

  She was about Albert’s age, with flowing auburn hair and a face so smooth that he wanted to reach out and touch it. She was slightly shorter than Albert, and slim. Beneath her open coat, her blouse was spread apart at the throat. Next to the whiteness of the blouse, her skin looked very tanned. Through the thin fabric, Albert could see the lace pattern of her bra.

  She turned away from him and walked to her cart, limping slightly.

  Her brown loafers were scuffed. She wore forest green knee socks. The plaid cotton of her kilt reached down almost to her knees.

  This is the one!

  As the girl headed up the next aisle, Albert rolled his shopping cart to one of the checkout stands. There were four customers in front of him. He kept watch on all the other lines until, finally, the girl in kilts entered one.

  He grinned as the checker rang up his pack of cigars, Swiss cheese, salami, and Oreos. He would be out of the store in plenty of time.

  With the sack tucked under one arm, he zipped his parka and walked to the exit. He turned around. The girl was lifting her grocery items out of the cart and piling them onto the checkout counter.

  He shouldn’t have long to wait.

  Outside, the wind threw itself against him. He leaned into it and trudged across the parking lot to his car. He waited in his car, the engine running.

  Soon, the girl came out of the store with a sack in each arm, her hair trailing in the wind, her kilts hugging her thighs. She climbed into a red Mustang.

  It was very easy to follow.

  After no more than a mile, it made a left-hand turn and rolled onto the driveway of a large, two-story brick house. The garage door opened automatically. The Mustang rolled to a stop beside a large sedan.

  Albert pulled into the driveway. His headlights rested on the girl as she climbed from her car. Turning around, she shaded her eyes and smiled toward him.

  Probably thinks I’m someone she knows.

  He gave her a friendly wave, though he doubted she could see it with the lights shining in her eyes.

  Apparently unconcerned by his presence, the girl walked around to the passenger side of her Mustang, opened its door and ducked inside for her groceries.

  Albert shut off his headlights.

  He swung his door open, stepped down onto the driveway and called, “Hi.” Walking quickly toward her, he asked, “How are you doing tonight?” as if she were an old friend.

  “Just fine, I guess,” she said. She came out of the car clutching both sacks.

  “Can I give you a hand with those?”

  She peered at his face. “You’re…?” She shook her head, frowning, as if trying to rearrange her thoughts and come up with his name.

  “Billy,” he said.

  “Oh. Sure, that’s right.”

  “We’re in English together,” he said, grinned.

  Everybody takes English.

  “Oh!” She laughed with relief. “Of course. Now I remember.” “Do you want a hand with the bags?”

  “Well…”

  “My mom and dad know your parents,” Albert explained. “That’s why I thought it’d be okay to drop by. I’m new in school, so I don’t know many people yet. I was absent today. I wondered if you could give me the homework assignment for English.”

  “Well, sure…I guess that’s okay. It isn’t catching, is it?”

  “Nah. I was kinda playing hooky.” He held out his hands. The girl grinned and stepped toward him.

  As he took the bags, his hands touched hers. She looked away from him quickly, pretending not to notice.

  She smelled very fresh, more like shampoo or soap than like perfume.

  “Do you live near here?” she asked, opening the back door of the house.

  “About a mile.”

  “Which street are you on?”

  Ignoring the question, Albert followed her into the kitchen. “Mmm,” he said. “Smells like leg of lamb. Where should I set these down?”

  “Oh, just anywhere. On the counter, I guess.”

  “Here?”

  “Sure, that’s fine. Thanks for the help.”

  “You’re welcome. Glad to be of service.”

  “I’ll see if I can find that English assignment. Do you want to wait here? My notebook’s in my room. I’ll be right down.”

  “Fine.”

  As she pushed through the swinging kitchen door, she called out, “I’m home!”

  Albert reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out his switchblade. He put it into the pocket of his parka.

  His heart was thumping so hard that he felt sick. His mouth was dry. He hurried to the sink, ran water from the faucet, cupped his hands and took a drink.

  After drying his hands, he went through the swinging door to the dining room. It was empty and dark. Light came through an open door at the far end. With his left hand in the pocket of his parka, he moved toward the light.

  He heard the girl’s footsteps overhead. Her bedroom must be directly above him.

  He paused in the dining room’s doorway. To the left was the house’s front door, to the right the staircase. Directly ahead of him was the living room. He walked forward.

  The girl’s parents were sitting on the couch watching television. Though it wasn’t even nine o’clock yet, both were already dressed for bed. The man wore pajamas and a robe. The woman wore a robe over a nightgown. She looked good, even with her hair in curlers. She was a larger, less delicate version of her daughter.

  They both smiled at Albert. The man stood up. “Charlene will be down in a minute,” he said. “I’m her father.”

  “I’m Billy Jones,” Albert said, walking toward the man.

  He was big—over six feet—with broad shoulders and a strong, heavy-jawed face. He held out a hand.

  Albert reached for the hand, gripped it, jerked it down and lunged forward, freeing his left hand from the parka pocket, snapping open his switchblade and ripping a gash across the man’s neck. With quick straight thrusts, he punched the blade four times into the man’s side.

  The woman began to scream.

  Albert shoved the man, dumping him onto her. He grabbed an ashtray from the coffee table and swung it at her forehead. When it hit her, the scream stopped. The heavy glass ashtray wasn’t damaged.

  Albert slammed it against the side of her head twice before it broke.

  He stepped back, panting.

  The woman was slumped on the couch, mouth slack, a dislodged curler dangling over one of her shut eyes.

  Footsteps on the stairs.

  “Charlene!” Billy yelled. “Come here!”

  He climbed over her father, sat on the back of the couch and swung a leg over the mother’s head. Knees spread wide apart, he pulled her head backward against his crotch. Then he pressed the knife blade to her throat.

  “Charleeeeene!” he called in a teasing, singsong voice. “Come heeeere!”

  Soon, he heard her rushing down the stairway.

  “I’ve got a surprise for you,” Albert called.

  She lurched into the living room, saw her parents and abruptly stopped.

  “Come here quickly or I’ll cut your mother’s throat.”

  Charlene stepped forward, pale and dull-eyed as if her mind was far away.

  “Okay, stop there.”

  She stopped in the middle of the living room floor.

  “Okay, now take your clothes off. All of them. Every stitch.”

  FOURTEEN

  THE MORNING AFTER

  The alarm clock blared. Albert rolled across the bed and grabbed it, his fingers searching its back until the
y found the plastic lever and pushed it.

  Silence.

  He looked at the face of the clock.

  7:25.

  Throwing back the blankets, he felt the chilly air wash over him. He hurried to the closet and found an old flannel robe. It was the father’s, probably the one he’d worn for years before getting the new robe he’d been wearing last night. Its sleeves hung past Albert’s fingertips. He rolled them up as he went to Charlene’s bedroom.

  The mother was just as he’d left her, face down and spread-eagled, each arm and leg fastened tightly with clothesline to a leg of the single bed.

  “Pleasant night?” he asked.

  She groaned.

  “I’ll take the tape off now, but if you scream I’ll kill you and Charlene. Got it?”

  She nodded.

  Albert lifted her head off the pillow, reached under the side of her face and ripped the adhesive tape off her mouth. She gasped for air, but said nothing.

  “Say ‘good morning.’ ”

  She said nothing.

  “Say it.” He rapped his knuckles against the matted, bloody hair on the side of her head. Her body lurched, straining at the ropes.

  “Good morning,” she muttered.

  “Sound cheerful.”

  “Good morning.”

  “That’s better.” He put his hands on her back. The skin felt like ice. “Again.”

  “Good morning.”

  “Your husband Mike isn’t feeling well this morning.” He knelt and looked at her face. He could only see one eye. It blinked and a tear slid across the bridge of her nose. “Mike has the flu.”

  “You killed him.”

  “No, he’s got the flu. A bad case of it, too. He’ll probably be laid up for the rest of the week.”

  “You killed him.”

  Albert opened the wallet he’d left beside the telephone extension and pulled out the business card. It read, MIKE ABERCROMBE, MANAGER, APPAREL PLUS, gave the address on 3rd Street and a phone number.

  “Is this the number you call when he’s gonna be absent?”

  “He calls. I never call.”

  “Well, he’s much too sick today, don’t you think? What time does he call?”

  “Eight-thirty.”

  “You’d better not be lying.”

  “I’m not.”