Night Show

by Richard Laymon

  ‘Yeah. Yeah, I suppose. I’m sorry, Bruce. I didn’t mean to snap at you that way.’

  ‘That’s all right, Miss Larson.’

  ‘I’m sure it’s not your fault. It’s just . . . I feel a certain attachment to the damn thing.’

  ‘Well, I’ll see if I can’t turn it up.’

  ‘Fine. Thank you. Now let’s grab Michael,’ she said, forcing cheer into her voice, ‘and get this show on the road.’

  Dani drove slowly past the guard station at the studio gate, and turned left onto Pico. She searched the rearview mirror.

  No hearse.

  Of course not.

  ‘Jack?’

  He looked at her.

  ‘About Ingrid. You . . . you don’t think there’s any chance that Anthony got her?’

  ‘Anthony?’ He sounded shocked. ‘No. How could he?’

  ‘He might’ve sneaked onto the lot. It’s not impossible. It happens.’

  ‘Sometimes. But look, how would he know Ingrid has anything to do with you? She hasn’t got a face, and I don’t think Anthony’s seen the rest of you well enough to recognise her other features.’

  Dani blushed. ‘If he was on the set Wednesday . . .’

  ‘Did you see him?’

  ‘No. But that doesn’t mean he wasn’t there.’

  ‘He didn’t find you until that night.’

  ‘If he was telling the truth.’

  ‘I imagine he was. Nothing happened before then.’

  ‘He could’ve been at the studio, watched the scene with Ingrid, and then followed us to the restaurant.’

  ‘I suppose. Why don’t we ask him tomorrow?’

  ‘Lot of good that would do.’

  ‘Really, Dani, I don’t think . . .’

  ‘But what if he does have her?’

  ‘Long as he hasn’t got the real article,’ Jack said. Reaching out, he rubbed the back of Dani’s neck.

  His hand felt good on her stiff muscles, but there was a cold knot in her stomach as she thought about Anthony with the mannequin.

  Ingrid, but Dani.

  She saw him in bed with her headless body, fondling her, kissing her, sliding a hand . . .

  ‘Look out!’

  She stood on the brake pedal. Her car shrieked to a halt inches from the rear of a van stopped at the traffic light.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Jack asked.

  ‘Yeah. Fine.’

  14

  CYNTHIA GABLE lifted her wine bottle toward the light and shook it. Through its tinted glass, she watched the cork toss like a tiny boat in a thrashing sea of Burgundy. She held the bottle steady. The tumult eased. The cork swayed back and forth, turning in a lazy way.

  Murray had always been so good with corks. Plucked them right out. They never ended up in the bottom of the bottle when Murray did it.

  Must be a trick to it.

  Leaning over the coffee table, she stretched out her arm. The neck of the bottle hovered above her glass. She tried to hold it steady as she poured, but the bottle wavered. Some of the wine hit the rim and ran down the stem and made a shiny puddle on the table. Most of it, however, got into the glass.

  She took a drink. A cool drop tapped her skin and trickled down between her breasts. She followed it with her finger, wiped it away, and licked her fingertip.

  Least it missed the nightgown.

  She licked the wet base of her glass, slid her tongue up its stem, up the rounded underside, found the rim again and drank some more.

  Her eyes met the TV screen. Sandy Chung was on, doing a news break.

  What happened to the show? Must be over.

  What show had she been watching? Oh yes. Dallas.

  Must be over.

  She finished her wine. She set down her glass near the puddle, picked up the bottle and upended it. A few drops fell into her glass. The cork slid up the bottle as if to get out, but stopped when the neck narrowed and dropped back to the bottom as she put the bottle down.

  A dead soldier. That’s what Murray called them.

  Not the cork, the bottle.

  A dead soldier with a cork in his stomach.

  The telephone rang.

  Moaning, she pushed herself off the sofa. She swayed over the coffee table. As she raised her hands for balance, she saw herself in the mirror above the fireplace. The image looked at her as if she were a stranger. It raised its eyebrows, grinned in a crooked way, and waved a hand.

  ‘Hiya, gorgeous,’ she said, and winked.

  The gal in the mirror winked, too.

  ‘Scuse me, scuse me. Gotta get the phone.’ She sidestepped past the coffee table. In the dark dining room, she grabbed the back of a chair to steady herself. With three long strides, she made it to the doorframe of the kitchen. She leaned a shoulder against it and lifted the wall phone’s receiver. ‘Hello?’ she asked, pronouncing it carefully.

  A low, breathy sound whispered in her ear.

  ‘Hello?’ she repeated the word.

  ‘Shhuh . . . Shhh . . . ahhh.’

  ‘That’s easy for you to say,’ she said, and a giggle slipped out. ‘C’mon, who’s this?’

  ‘Ssss . . . Cynthia.’

  ‘No, I’m Cynthia. Who’s this?’

  ‘Sssso cold.’

  The low murmur of the voice sent a shiver up her back. She slid a hand down the wall and found the light switch. The kitchen went bright. ‘I’m not in a mood for jokers,’ she said.

  ‘I . . . miss you . . . Cynthia.’

  ‘You be’er tell me who this is.’

  ‘Have you . . . forgotten me . . . so soon?’

  She hung up. ‘Jerk,’ she muttered. She rubbed her arms. They were pebbly with goosebumps. Her nipples stood rigid against the soft lace of her negligee. She would put her robe on. That would be snug and nice. Then maybe another sip or two of wine.

  She tugged open the refrigerator and took out a long, slim bottle of Chardonnay.

  The phone rang again, making her jump. She snatched it off the hook. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Cynthia,’ said the same, low voice.

  ‘Who the hell is this?’

  ‘I . . . I want you . . . with me. So dark here. So cold.’

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Mmm . . . mmmm . . . Murray.’

  The bottle slipped from her hand. It thumped the floor but didn’t break. It rolled a few inches and stopped. ‘You’re sick.’

  ‘No, I’m dead.’

  ‘You’re a sick perverted bastard ’n I’m gonna call the cops.’

  ‘Oh Cynthia, I’m so cold. I want your warmth. I want to make love with you.’

  ‘You piece of shit!’

  ‘I’m coming for you.’

  She slammed the receiver down. Then she tugged at the phone, unplugging it. She rushed into her bedroom, flicked on the light, and dropped to her knees by the nightstand. She jerked the telephone plug from the wall.

  There.

  The bastard! The shit! What kind of animal would do such a thing? Nobody she knew. Must be a stranger, got her name from the obituaries. Maybe goes right down the list, calling every widow.

  Sick!

  I want to make love to you.

  I’m coming over

  No, he won’t come over.

  Just a sicko gets his kicks with the phone.

  She rolled onto her back on the soft carpet beside the bed. The ceiling turned slowly.

  Go over to Barbara’s?

  But it’s twenty minutes on the freeway. I can’t drive. Not like this.

  Call Barbara, ask her over?

  Maybe.

  He won’t come. Those types never do. That’s what the cops say on TV, and he always ends up coming. But that’s TV. He won’t come.

  Just a harmless sicko.

  Sicko. Revolting word, sicko.

  And suddenly she knew she would throw up. Clutching her mouth, she staggered to her feet and ran for the master bathroom. Her stomach tossed. Her throat filled. She cupped her hands under her chin and tried to
catch the hot flood and then she was at the toilet. She hunched over it, vomiting and sobbing.

  When she was done, she cleaned herself off with toilet paper. She turned on the bathroom light. The top of her nightgown was clotted with mess. She wiped some of it off. She considered throwing away the gown, but Murray had given it to her last Valentine’s Day.

  She turned on the shower. When the water was as hot as she liked it, she climbed into the tub and pulled the curtain shut. The spray hit her face, patted her eyelids, filled her open mouth. It soaked her nightgown, making it cling in a way that felt good, almost erotic.

  She used a soap bar on the soiled places. She rubbed it over her breasts until the fabric was sudsy and slick, then put the soap away and rinsed.

  Bending over, she lifted her gown. She peeled it up her body and struggled out of it. She wrung the water from it. Then she opened the shower curtain and tossed it into the sink, and thought she heard the telephone.

  Impossible. Just her imagination playing tricks.

  A faint ringing sounded through the house.

  Her bowels shriveled. She hunched low and shut off the faucets.

  There it was again – a long, insistent ring that crawled up her body like the fingers of a dead man.

  This can’t be, she told herself.

  Silence. She waited, hanging onto the faucet handles to steady herself, drops of cold water hitting the back of her neck.

  It’s stopped, she thought. Thank God it’s . . . it came again, this time in a series of quick shrills unlike any noise her telephone had ever made.

  The doorbell!

  Someone’s at the front door.

  I’m coming for you.

  But not Murray. The caller hadn’t been Murray. He’s dead. The voice wasn’t even his. Unless it had changed, somehow. Unless the accident . . . No, no, no. It was a sicko made those calls.

  And now he’s at the bell button.

  He can’t get in.

  Maybe he can.

  Maybe it’s not him. Maybe it’s Barbara or Louise or a neighbor or even the police.

  Cynthia climbed out of the tub and ran, dripping, into her bedroom. She snagged her bathrobe off its closet hook. The ringing had stopped. Maybe he’d given up. Maybe he was making his way toward the back. But if it was a friend . . . She couldn’t let a friend get away. Shoving her wet arms into the sleeves, she raced through the dining room. She pulled the robe shut and belted it.

  In the living room, she grabbed an iron poker from the fireplace stand. She raced to the door. Her hand closed around the knob. The strength seemed to drain from her arm, from her whole body.

  What if he’s there, standing silent at the other side of the door, waiting?

  Not Murray. It couldn’t be Murray. He was in pieces from the accident, so even if . . . no, he’s dead and in his grave and there’s no way on God’s earth it could be him.

  It’s the sicko who called, and he’s standing just outside the door, no more than two feet away.

  Cynthia’s hand fell away from the knob. She stared at the door, wishing it had a peephole. But even if it did, she knew she couldn’t bring herself to look out.

  Water trickled down her legs, making the carpet wet around her feet. She swayed, talking deep breaths, and pressed a hand against her chest. Her heart pounded against it as if trying to smash through her ribs and escape.

  Go away!

  Maybe he’s already gone.

  I can’t just stand here.

  She gazed up at the guard chain. It was in place. She could open the door just a few inches, enough to look out.

  No. No she couldn’t.

  But even as she told herself she didn’t have the nerve, she saw her hand lift slowly toward the knob. Her numb fingers curled around it.

  I can’t do this!

  She began to turn the knob and it pulsed against her palm as the door suddenly quaked. She jerked her hand away, lurched backwards. Blow after blow struck the door, shaking it in its frame.

  Then it stopped.

  ‘I . . . WANT . . . YOU!!!’

  ‘No!’ she shrieked. ‘Go away!’

  She heard the whisper of rushing footfalls.

  He’s leaving!

  Somewhere outside, a heavy door thunked shut. A car engine sputtered to life.

  Cynthia dropped her poker. She threw herself against the door, clawed the chain free and pulled the door open wide.

  In her driveway stood a long, black hearse.

  She shook her head, wanting to scream but feeling strangled. She stumbled forward one step. Her bare foot came down on something soft and crumbly. She raised it and grabbed the doorframe. In the porch light, she saw that the stoop was littered with fresh soil. Staggering backwards, she reached for the door.

  She saw the hand.

  Nailed to the outside of her door. A severed hand, filthy and blood-drenched. Red gore hung from the stump of its wrist.

  She covered her mouth and screamed. The hearse sped backwards. She lunged into her house and screamed again as a glob dropped from the hand. She swung the door shut. Its bottom edge smeared the meat over her carpet.

  Meat? It looked like ground beef. She crouched down for a closer look.

  Raw hamburger!

  Gasping for breath, she jerked the door open again. The wrist of the nailed hand was hollow. She touched it.

  Rubber.

  A rubber hand.

  She almost laughed, but she cried instead.

  15

  LYING ON her side, Dani stared out at the sunlit pool. A beautiful summer morning. She listened to bird songs, heard the distant buzz of a power mower. The mild breeze carried a scent of grass and flowers. It felt cool on her bare shoulders. She pulled the sheet higher.

  If only she hadn’t asked Anthony to come over. The day could’ve been wonderful. Just her and Jack, lingering in bed, having breakfast by the pool, spending a few hours in the workshop, swimming later and relaxing in the sun.

  Damn. That little invitation would end up ruining the day. She’d been an idiot to . . . no, it was the smart thing to do. Give the jerk what he wants, take the wind out of his sails. So far, at least, it seemed to be working; he hadn’t bothered them since Thursday night.

  He’s probably staying home with Ingrid.

  The thought made a chill creep up Dani’s body. She rolled over. Jack was on his side, facing the other way. She snuggled against him, pressing her thighs to the backs of his legs, molding herself to the warm curves of his buttocks and back, kissing the nape of his neck.

  ‘Mmm,’ he said.

  ‘Good morning.’

  ‘Mmm. What time is it?’

  ‘Eight.’

  ‘So we have an hour before Terrible Tony arrives.’

  ‘A whole hour.’

  ‘Good. Just enough time for a swim, a shower, and breakfast.’ She slid her hand over his hip. Her fingertips brushed the coils of his pubic hair. ‘Swim? I’d rather do something else.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Dani lay on her back, arms and legs stretched out, letting the soft breeze cool her sweat. She felt used up and wonderful.

  The shower made a quiet whispering sound like a wind in a forest.

  She didn’t have to move until Jack was through.

  She glanced at the alarm clock. Twenty to nine. Just enough time for a quick shower and a cup of coffee before Anthony came.

  Terrible Tony.

  She smiled. Jack could be so serious sometimes, but his sense of humor was always lurking nearby, ready to spring out and surprise her.

  The doorbell rang.

  Her stomach tightened. ‘Oh shit,’ she muttered.

  She looked at the clock. Eighteen minutes early. If it’s him.

  Sitting up, she used the sheet to dry herself. The bell rang again as she climbed off the bed. She stepped into her panties and white shorts, and pulled on her sleeveless sweatshirt as she hurried down the hall.

  She opened the door.


  ‘Greetings,’ Anthony said. He held out a single, red rose.

  ‘Why, thank you.’

  He lowered his head. The ink eye had been washed off.

  ‘Come on in, Anthony.’

  He stepped into the foyer and looked both ways.

  ‘Jack’ll be along in a minute.’

  ‘I knew he was here. I saw his car.’

  ‘Would you like some coffee?’

  ‘Does he live with you?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said without hesitation. It was none of his business, but she didn’t want him to know that Jack might only be here on a temporary basis. She hoped it would become permanent, but . . .

  ‘You’re not married, are you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I didn’t think so.’

  ‘I’ll put the coffee on.’ She shut the door. Anthony followed her toward the kitchen. She felt uneasy walking ahead of him. ‘Have you had any breakfast?’ she asked, looking back at him.

  ‘I don’t eat it.’

  ‘I’ll heat up some bagels. You’re welcome to join us.’

  He sat at the kitchen table while Dani filled the coffee maker.

  ‘Do you live near here?’

  ‘Not far.’

  ‘In an apartment?’

  ‘I’ll have a house in another year.’

  ‘That’d be nice. Houses are nice. The prices are outlandish, though.’

  ‘I’ll be rich by then.’

  ‘Well, I hope so.’ She took bagels out of the freezer, unwrapped them and put them in the toaster oven. ‘Do you work?’

  ‘I’m the Chill Master.’

  ‘I mean, how do you make a living?’

  ‘I’m your assistant.’

  Before Dani could find a response, Jack grinned at her from behind the bar. ‘Been replaced already, have I?’

  Thank God, she thought. Reinforcements.

  Jack entered the kitchen. ‘Hi there, Tony. A little early, aren’t you?’

  ‘Am I?’ he asked, narrowing his eyes.

  ‘I’d say so, yes. I barely had time to put on my face.’

  Looking annoyed, Anthony turned to Dani. ‘I think we should discuss the terms of my employment.’

  ‘Nobody’s mentioned employment,’ Dani said.

  ‘Just you, Tony.’

  ‘What we talked about,’ Dani explained, ‘is showing you a little about how we work, getting you started in the right direction. Just as a favor.’