"And what? De-camp my place? Move in with some heads? Uh uh, he don't scare me that bad. I've run into bad and he ain't it."
"Pet, I don't think you're getting it. Bobby's the devil. He's after me and if you get in the way, he'll get us both. You heard him."
"I heard him, the sonofabitch, but he won't make me run." She drew her skinny self up and stalked to the mattresses. She reverently took up a dope pipe from the scratched bedside table and tapped crumpled bits of pot into it.
"Maybe you better go," she said after she had the pipe glowing, the smoke sucked into her lungs. She closed her eyes.
"If I leave and he comes looking, he'll hurt you, Pet. I swear he will."
"You let me worry about Pretty Boy. I got friends, you know, who'll watch out for me. But I think you ought to go. You been wanting to cut out anyway. This is the perfect time, babe."
She was right, of course. I had to get away. If I wasn't around maybe he would come for me, leave Pet alone. But what if he didn't? How would I live with that?
"I'll take off tomorrow," I said, sighing. I pushed aside the tie-dyed curtains over the stained sink. "Right now I'll make some tea to calm me down. And I'll take a few tokes on what you've got, if you want to share."
"Tea? Bucket's upstairs. Upstairs is the bucket," Pet said dreamily. "Right by the toilet, where it is, you know, that's where the water is, in the bucket, the fucking bucket's big as the fucking toilet bowl, holds plenty..."
"Yeah, Pet. I know. Go to sleep."
And she did, dropping the dope pipe on the night stand and lying back. She was a sweetheart petunia, my little warrior friend, the space cadet who knew how to live free--almost free.
Pet slept the rest of the day, as was her custom, and woke around ten P.M. to go tooling the street while I packed my meager belongings.
She returned at midnight babbling about electricity and how the current flows, man, how it surrounds you everywhere in a city. "It's in the wires," she said, her eyes darting a glance around the peeling walls. "And there's wires everywhere."
I agreed as to how there were a lot of wires, yes, but it was nothing to get uptight about and what had she taken, exactly? It didn't seem to be sitting too well with her whatever it was.
"Oh," she waved a hand around the air, "just a little sumpthin special, sumpthin I think I'm gonna like...ummmmhmmmm...like pretty fucking good...
"One of these days I'm gonna FLY, sweet honeychile mine!" She leapt into the air, transported into a jet-glide fantasy. It took me an hour to get her down and onto the mattress. She tossed and turned in the dark and made me hold her while she shook with cataclysmic episodes of sudden trembling.
So small. Only three years older than me, Pet seemed much younger, more innocent and trusting than I had ever been. Which was saying a great deal considering the mess I'd made of my heretofore young years.
I held onto her for dear life and thought about what would happen to her when I left on the morrow. Here I thought she'd been protecting me, providing me with a way to live, when all the while it was I who had been her pillar, her Gibraltar. This was not the first time I'd coached Pet through the throes of a drug-induced delirium. Before it was just something I did without thinking about. It was what we all did for one another. But if I weren't here who was going to hold onto Pet and keep her from flying so high the clouds would claim her?
Well, I'd make her go with me, that's what I'd do. I'd kidnap her if I had to, get her out of this madhouse, away from the free-floating anxieties and the paranoid dream world. Away from the singing wires and the pills and the tabs of stuff and the smoke, away from the Bobby Tremains.
Pet stopped convulsing and snored peacefully, her mouth open and smelling of an apple she must have snatched from the food vendor earlier. I drowsed, but held onto Pet's hand to give us both security in the black quiet hours before dawn. I didn't like those hours, especially on nights Pet needed watching.
At first I thought I was dreaming when I heard a door creaking on its un-oiled hinges. Bobby's silky voice ("Here I am.") brought me partially awake. I sat up in bed, trying to untangle the Indian woven spread from around my legs, fighting with the material, fighting off the deep sleep trance that had hold of my mind.
"What...? Who's there? That you, Bobby?"
Pet slept on. I gripped her right arm and buried my nails in her tender flesh. She did not respond. Whatever she'd taken was enough to put her out for the long term. Oh Pet, please wake up, Jesus, Pet, don't crap out on me now...
"She can't help you."
I could see him as deeper shadow sneaking across the room, hunched, lurching sideways, something in his hands, something with a long handle, a baseball bat, an axe, something bad, real bad...
"Bobby..."
"You took my fucking car."
Halfway across the room.
"Bobby, I'll pay you back. Bobby, I'm sorry..."
"You dumped me in fucking Reno."
Three-fourths of the way across the room.
"Bobby, c'mon, you have to listen to me. I was crazy about you, don't you know that, don't you know how you treated me? And it wasn't just in Reno--you treated me like shit all the way across the country."
Halted.
What was the handled thing? How bad was it? If I threw up my arms, could I stop the damage?
"You break my fucking heart," he said.
"Bobby, you don't want to do this. You're just mad, I admit you've got reason to be mad," I lied breathlessly. He still had that black cloud demon in him and it had driven him right over the dark edge. I didn't believe in the supernatural, I didn't believe in demons and the devil, but here it was right in my room, standing feet away, brandishing a weapon. I had to keep trying to reach him. "But didn't I get you out of the hospital, out of Louisville? Didn't I help you escape prison? Didn't I? Doesn't that count?"
"It took me two months to track you down," he said. His voice was just wrong, all wrong. I'd never heard him sound so calm, so utterly insanely calm. Tundra would double freeze from that voice. It was a voice from the pit.
I shook Pet violently. She groaned and turned onto her back. Oh Pet, oh Pet, we have a problem here, you need to wake up!
"I'm sorry, Bobby, I said I was sorry, honest I am. If I had it to do over again, I wouldn't take your car. And Pet can get you another one and I'll get some money for..."
"You left me stranded in Reno. I had to sneak out of that goddamned room. Had to panhandle out of Reno, like a fucking hippie, had to panhandle like some buddy of yours off the streets to get coffee money. Had to hitchhike. Had to walk in the fucking rain and wind in Sacramento. You want to make up for that?"
"Yeah, Bobby, I do. I mean I will, just tell me what I can do, okay? We don't have to be enemies. We don't, we just don't."
At the foot of the mattresses.
Baseball bat. That's what it was. He was going to bash my head in, that's what he was going to do. Fuck me, Bobby Tremain was Death and grimmer by far than the Reaper could hope to be. Whatever had taken possession of him was bent on murder and it had inhabited a man who could accommodate it.
"Oh Bobby..."
"Get outta the bed."
"Sure, sure, right away." I scrambled from beneath the covers and judged my chances of getting around him and to the open door. They weren't good. They were so bad to be nearly non-existent. Bobby was just too big, he took up too much room, his arms were too long, the bat too heavy, the world too goddamned unfair. I was going to die for paying back in kind. I was going to end up a bloody mess of brain and teeth in a Haight-Ashbury condemned apartment house. While Pet slept oblivious and woke to find her drug dreams have invaded the real world. In Bobby's inelegant parlance, what kind of shit was this?
It's hard to believe it when you're about to die. You try to think of anything, but that. You do little calculations of your chances and weigh them in your favor. You pray, I don't care if God left you high and dry when you were in the cradle or if you left Him in the dust behind you as you g
rew up, you still end up praying. You think up great excuses, brilliantly exaggerated lies, and make yourself believe they're working. Because if they aren't, the alternative isn't even thinkable.
Bobby came toward me and I squeezed shut my eyes against him. He was Raw Hide and Bloody Bones from my Alabama childhood. He was the Swamp Thing. He was Frankenstein's monster and the faceless intruder who came to people asleep in their safe homes. He was a force of Nature against which there is no recompense. He was a homicidal Shadow.
"No, Bobby, please."
He gently moved me aside so he could stand next to the side of the bed I'd just vacated. His touch made me jangle and jump like a rabbit in a cage. "Bobby, c'mon, Bobby, Bobby, don't..."
"I won't," he said softly and then lifted the long spear of dark in both hands and crushed Pet's skull with one fast heavy downward stroke.
"JESUSJESUSOHMYGODNONONONO!"
I was behind him and I had his arms and he was off balance and toppling, we were both falling and the floor came up, smacked us hard, and I screamed in his ear, screamed and screamed in his filthy, horrible, inhuman ear. We rolled, I scratched at his face, at his eyes, his nose, his mouth, his neck, his chest, his arms. I screamed and he screamed and the night bloomed explosions of lights as he struck me and I struck back hard as I could, hard as I knew how, hard as my frenzy allowed. The bat skittered under the bed, the bloody weapon was lost, and Bobby was scooting for it, frantic to have possession again, so he could bash me, so he could do to me what he'd done to a poor, sleeping, totally innocent dreamer. His legs flailed to free himself from the lock I had on his body, and I heard one of his legs crack the way you hear thunder erupting on the edge of a blast of ozone from a bank of storm clouds. His leg, broken again, shattered I hoped, splintered to a million pieces,like...like...like...Pet...shattered, splintered, broken.
Smashed. Beyond redemption.
Hit him, hit him, that's all I could think, hit him until he stops, until he vanishes, until he's gone, until he's dead, dead, dead, dead, and gone.
Three street loungers, guys hopped up on something or other, stumbled into the foyer led on by our screaming. They tottered into the melee, only sober enough to take Bobby from my fury and hold him while the police came for him and the ambulance came for what was left of Pet.
"Man," one of my rescuers kept saying, "Man, this is shit-for-brains, this is bad, dude, this is sick and revolting, you bastard, how'd you think you could do this? Don't cry, you fucking whiner, we don't care if your leg hurts, we hope it hurts, by God, we hope it fucking kills you, man!" Then he kicked Bobby. And kicked him some more before the cops showed.
Well, it didn't kill him. Left him further maimed, but it was the state who killed pretty Bobby Tremain. Not literally. He died in a prison riot, shot right through his gorgeous heart, was the report. Sometimes, like really, there's a little justice out there in the lousy establishment, you know what I'm telling you? Bobby might have been demon-possessed, he might have been ripe for invasion given his mindset and his actions, but it was the real human, blood-and-bone Bobby who took the bullet.
I heard in later years Jerry married a radio disc-jockey and set up his own television repair shop in Cairo, Illinois.
I drove through Louisville recently to show my teenage girls where I had lived and worked on Chestnut Street. The hospital had been razed to the ground. Only the cement steps remained leading up to a flat grassy expanse open to the sky. The sleazy apartment house was gone too and in its place stood a one-story modern office building. Even the detention center was gone. It was as if none of it had ever been, as if 1967 had been but a fantasy. But lots of people from that year feel that way. You ask them, find out.
"I met a boy in that hospital," I told my daughters as we drove slowly past what had been and was no more. "He was the prettiest thing, but..."
"Boys aren't pretty, Mom. Boys are handsome or good-looking or cute. Girls are pretty."
They have a lot to learn, my young feisty children. But I doubt if warnings will do a bit of good. At least that has been me and my grandmother's educated experience.
You can't persuade a girl to stay away from a pretty boy. You can't tell a woman there are demonic creatures parading as angels walking this mean earth.
THE END
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OTHER BOOKS BY BILLIE SUE MOSIMAN
NIGHT CRUISING
KILLING CARLA
A PRETTY KILLER BOY
CRIME THRILLERS-A Box Set Page 46
