Come Out Tonight

by Richard Laymon

  She rubbed her face with it, then drank the last of the water and filled her mouth with the remnants of the ice cubes. She set her glass down on the nightstand beside the candle.

  Bending over the bed, she narrowed her eyes at the clock radio.

  10:25

  Any second now.

  She crawled on to the bed, flopped over and sprawled out.

  “Come and get it,” she muttered. Squirming, she raised her knees and spread her legs wide. Then she huffed quietly. “Right,” she muttered.

  She lowered her knees, sat up and reached beyond her feet for the top sheet. Holding its edge, she eased down onto her back. Then she swept the sheet high and let it float down. It settled lightly, covering her body almost to the shoulders.

  “Ready when you are,” she said.

  She listened for the sounds of Duane’s approach.

  She stood no chance of hearing his car. From here in the bedroom, she probably wouldn’t be able to hear his footsteps in the hallway, either. She might hear his keys when he unlocked the front door. If not, the sounds of the door shutting behind him ought to reach her.

  Unless he gets sneaky about it.

  I probably will hear him come in, she told herself.

  But when?

  For a long time—or what seemed like a long time—Sherry lay still and listened for him. She heard mostly noises made by the blowing wind. While the curtains lifted and flapped in near silence, the wind outside sounded like a tribe of demented phantoms roaming the neighborhood—moaning, hissing and howling. Wind-grabbed objects bumped and clattered and shook, while others rolled along walkways or streets. Car alarms beeped and tooted. From nearby and far away came the cries of sirens.

  What a night, Sherry thought. Sounds like all hell is breaking loose out there.

  Why isn’t he back yet?

  Rolling onto her side and pushing herself up with an elbow, she looked at the clock.

  10:31.

  She flopped down again.

  She stared at the ceiling. It shimmered in the candlelight.

  What time did he leave, anyway? Ten after? Something like that.

  He’s been gone more than twenty minutes.

  Sherry suddenly felt too hot. Her head was half-buried in the pillow’s moist heat. Her back and buttocks were sticking to the bottom sheet. The top sheet, resting lightly atop her body, walled her away from the caresses of the wind.

  She cast the sheet aside and sat up.

  And sighed as the wind drifted over her skin like warm, dry hands.

  She crossed her legs and straightened her back and rested her hands lightly on her thighs.

  I’ll just sit like this till I hear him come in.

  She sat there and waited. The roaming wind dried her sweat. She felt almost cool—except for her rump, which was pressed against the hot, moist bottom sheet.

  After a while, she longed to look over her shoulder at the clock.

  She resisted the urge.

  She kept on resisting the urge.

  He’ll be here any second, she told herself.

  Finally, she looked.

  10:41.

  She grimaced.

  He’s been gone half an hour, she thought. The damn store’s only two blocks away. He could’ve walked and gotten back ten minutes ago.

  Something went wrong.

  He was in a wreck or walked into a hold-up or…

  Wait!

  She suddenly huffed out a laugh.

  I know what went wrong, she told herself. He got to the Speed-D-Mart all right, no trouble, but found out that they didn’t carry condoms. So he headed off for some other all-night store. LA was jammed with convenience stores, mini-marts and even grocery stores that remained open twenty-four hours a day.

  Some guys might give up and come back empty-handed, but not Duane.

  He won’t come back till he has them.

  This might be a very long wait, she thought.

  To free her buttocks from the moist heat, she dropped forward. She caught herself with stiff arms. On hands and knees, her rear end stroked by the soothing wind, she resumed her wait.

  Thing is, she thought, he knows I expected him back in ten or fifteen minutes. Would he really take off for another store? At the very least, wouldn’t he call and let me know what’s going on?

  Maybe, maybe not.

  He’s not always the most considerate guy in the world.

  Not very long ago, he’d shown up at her apartment almost an hour late. His excuse? He’d been stuck in traffic on the way home from work.

  Thing is, he had a car phone. He could’ve called, told her not to expect him on time.

  She hadn’t bothered to get on his case about it.

  I’m his friend, not his mother.

  Was tonight just another example of such thoughtless behavior?

  Maybe it’s more than that, she thought. Maybe he’s late on purpose to punish me, teach me a lesson. This is what happens when you send me out in the middle of the night for condoms.

  He wouldn’t be that low, would he?

  You never know.

  Duane’s not like that.

  If he is like that, she thought, it’s better to find out now.

  He probably decided to try one more store. What’s five or ten more minutes? But maybe that store was farther away than he thought…

  From somewhere outside, somewhere a block or two blocks or maybe even five blocks away, came a bang.

  It might’ve been a door slamming.

  It might’ve been the backfire of a car.

  It might’ve been a large firecracker.

  But Sherry thought it sounded mostly like a gunshot.

  Chapter Three

  Though this neighborhood on the west side was fairly safe by Los Angeles standards, a day rarely went by without Sherry hearing a few mysterious bangs. If they seemed to come from nearby, she might look out a window. If very nearby, she might hurry away from the windows and duck with her back against a wall. Usually, however, she did nothing.

  For the most part, the bangs were simply background noise. Like sirens and car alarms and police helicopters and screams, they were of little importance unless they happened in front of your face.

  Or unless your boyfriend was out there on an errand.

  And late returning.

  Had the blast come from the direction of the Speed-D-Mart?

  Sherry couldn’t tell. All outside noises seemed to be entering through the open windows on the other side of the bedroom.

  It probably wasn’t even a gunshot, she told herself. And if it was, it might’ve come from just about anywhere. The chances of Duane being the target were enormously slim.

  But where is he?

  On her hands and knees, Sherry turned her body until she could look back and see the clock radio on the headboard.

  10:47.

  Time sure flies when you’re waiting for someone.

  Especially when you’re afraid he might’ve gotten killed or something.

  “He’s fine,” she muttered. He’ll come waltzing in with a perfectly reasonable explanation.

  Maybe reasonable to him.

  How can he do this to me?

  He’d better have a good explanation.

  She turned around completely, crawled to the corner of the bed, leaned forward and puffed out the candle. The room fell dark except for the ambient light from the windows. She climbed off the bed and made her way to the door.

  In the bathroom, she stepped to the sink. She turned on the cold water, bent over, and splashed her face. It felt very good, so she ducked lower and cupped water onto her head.

  Maybe I should take a shower.

  A nice, cool shower would feel great—and she could easily make it last fifteen or twenty minutes. By the time she finished, Duane would certainly be back from the store.

  Or wherever the hell he went.

  But she had already taken a shower tonight—with Duane after watching the GI Jane video. Taking anothe
r so soon…

  She suddenly found herself thinking about the look and feel of Duane as he’d stood with her under the hot spray. She remembered the longing in his eyes, the taste of his open mouth, the slippery caresses of his urgent hands, the stiffness of his penis pushing against her, rubbing her, nudging her, prodding her as if hoping to endear itself and find a snug home.

  We should’ve just done it there in the shower, she thought.

  But I had to insist on the bedroom.

  And a condom.

  And now he’s gone.

  Sherry turned off the faucet. She stepped away from the sink, found her towel and pulled it off the bar. It was still damp. She used it on her dripping head and face, then stood in the near darkness and mopped the sweat off the rest of her body.

  As dry as she was likely to get, she hung up the towel.

  In the living room, she turned toward the television.

  The red numbers of the VCR looked very bright.

  10:53.

  Gone about forty minutes.

  By the faint light from the windows, Sherry made her way toward the kitchen. The carpet ended. The tiles of the kitchen floor felt a little slippery under her bare feet. Careful not to fall or bump into anything, she stepped over to the wall phone.

  Call information, maybe. Get the Speed-D-Mart’s number. Maybe somebody over there can tell me what’s going on.

  She took hold of its handset and raised it to her ear.

  Silence.

  It’s dead?

  Oh, great.

  What if somebody cut the lines?

  She’d seen that sort of thing countless times in movies and TV shows—but she supposed it rarely happened in real life.

  With the Santa Anas howling outside, the probable culprit was the wind. Falling branches must’ve taken out some phone lines.

  Duane might’ve tried to call.

  But where is he?

  Sherry hung up.

  Phone or no phone, his destination was only two blocks away.

  She returned to the living room.

  10:56.

  She turned on a nearby lamp. The brightness hurt her eyes and made her squint. Not waiting for her vision to adjust, she squatted between the couch and coffee table and picked up her panties. She pulled them on.

  Next, she put on the short, pleated skirt that Duane had given to her last week. “In case you ever feel like dressing like a woman,” he’d told her. To which she’d responded, “Looks like you want a cheerleader.”

  To which he’d said, “It’ll sure cheer me up.”

  This was the first night she’d worn the skirt for him.

  And now I’m stuck with it, she thought as she slid its zipper up.

  She found her blouse on the floor behind the couch, right where she’d tossed it. Normally, she wore T-shirts and jeans when she wasn’t at work. But you can’t wear a T-shirt with a bright yellow cheerleader skirt, so she’d bought a special blouse for tonight. Lightweight and slippery, it was gaudy with scenes of jungles and lagoons and tropical birds.

  As she fastened its buttons, she hurried around the couch. She picked up her socks and sneakers, then sat down long enough to put them on.

  Her denim handbag was on the seat of a nearby chair. She grabbed it by the strap and hurried to the door. She paused at the door.

  Have I got everything?

  Clothes, purse, what else is there?

  That should about be it.

  She looked at the clock.

  10:59.

  Standing there, she waited for 11:00.

  Did I blow out the candle?

  Yes.

  11:00.

  Sherry opened the door and stepped out into the hallway. The entire length of the corridor was deserted. She eased the door shut until it latched, then tried the knob.

  Satisfied that the door was locked, she headed for the stairway. All the doors along the way were shut. No sounds of people or televisions or music came from inside the rooms, but she could hear the wind howling and battering things outside the building.

  What if nobody’s here?

  What if everybody has vanished?

  “Oh, that’d be a hoot,” she muttered.

  And extremely unlikely.

  This is real life, she reminded herself. Everybody doesn’t vanish in real life.

  Not often enough to worry about.

  Besides, she told herself, I heard sirens. And a gunshot. Maybe. They require the presence of people. So I’m not the last person left on Earth, or even in Los Angeles.

  Maybe just in this building.

  Smiling and shaking her head, she hurried down the stairway. In the lobby, she opened a side door and trotted down a flight of stairs to the underground parking lot.

  Most of the spaces were occupied by cars and sport utility vehicles.

  Duane’s assigned space was empty. His van was gone.

  Okay, Sherry thought. He hasn’t made it back, but he got away from the building all right.

  Probably.

  From where she stood, she saw the security gate blocking the driveway to the street. She had no way to activate it, so she returned to the lobby.

  As she pushed open one of the front doors, the wind caught it and tried to rip it from her grip. She held on tight, got outside, and leaned her back against the door to force it shut.

  This isn’t good, she thought.

  But it’s not exactly the end of the world, either. She’d been in strong winds before. To one extent or another, this sort of thing happened almost every year.

  Pushing away from the door, she lowered her head and hunched over and started out. She trotted down half a dozen stairs and headed for the sidewalk. As she hurried along, the wind shoved at her, shook her skirt and blouse and threw grit against her.

  When she reached the sidewalk, she looked both ways. There was no traffic on the street. Several cars were parked along the curb.

  Too bad mine isn’t one of them.

  Normally, for a dinner and evening at Duane’s, she would’ve driven herself. But her Jeep was back in the repair shop for the umpteenth time—this time for major, expensive transmission work. (Turns out the supposedly all-American Jeep secretly had a Japanese transmission.) So Duane had picked her up and brought her over in his van.

  Her apartment building was about three miles away.

  She supposed she could walk the distance in less than an hour.

  It’d probably be a very exciting hike, she thought.

  If I don’t get jumped, robbed, raped or shot, a tree’ll probably land on my head.

  But she had no intention of making such a hike.

  Not with Duane unaccounted for.

  Turning to the right, she headed for the Speed-D-Mart.

  This is probably not the smartest thing I’ve ever done, she thought.

  Hell, it’s only two blocks. What’s the alternative, sit around and wait for him?

  As she walked along, the wind pushed against her and flapped her clothes. Every so often, it flipped her skirt up. A couple of times, it hoisted her blouse as high as her breasts. She stopped and tucked her blouse snugly down the waistband of her skirt. Then she shifted her purse strap to her other shoulder so the strap crossed her chest. That took care of half her problem; the wind continued to fling her skirt.

  And each time it did so, it threw debris against her bare legs.

  Just before the end of the block, she came to an alley. She knew this alley well, having walked it often with Duane. Decently lighted, it passed behind several small shops, a couple of private schools, and finally the laundromat and Speed-D-Mart. On the other side of the alley were the back fences, carports and garbage bins of several houses and apartment buildings.

  Pausing, she studied the alley. Wrappers and leaves were tumbling along its pavement. Pages from newspapers were performing low-level aerial acrobatics. A black cat scurried out of the shadows, raced across the alley and scooted underneath a parked car.

  She saw no peop
le.

  Between here and the mini-mart, however, were a great many places where someone might be lurking.

  The alley was a lonely place.

  If she ran into trouble…

  “Not a chance,” she muttered, and continued on to Robertson Boulevard. A major north-south route through west Los Angeles, Robertson usually had heavy traffic. Tonight, only a few cars were rushing by.

  Still a lot better than the alley, Sherry told herself.

  She turned right. Hands against her thighs to hold her skirt down, she followed the sidewalk past the fronts of a carpet shop, an antique store, a pawn shop, a Jewish girls’ school—all shut for the night.

  The errant page of a newspaper blew against her left shin and stayed. After taking a few steps, she reached down and plucked it free and it flew off down the sidewalk.

  Each time headlights approached, she looked over at Robertson to see if they belonged to Duane’s van. And to make sure they weren’t from a car packed with gangbangers.

  At the corner, she stepped off the curb. The street to her right was littered with half a dozen palm fronds as large as human bodies. No cars were coming. She hurried to the other side, then walked past an auto-repair shop, a place that sold exercise equipment, a flower shop, and a private pre-school. All were closed for the night.

  As she passed the pre-school, the Speed-D-Mart’s parking lot came into sight.

  Chapter Four

  The lot provided parking for the Speed-D-Mart and the all-night laundromat that shared the building.

  It had spaces for at least a dozen vehicles.

  All were empty except four.

  Duane’s white van wasn’t there, but Sherry knew that he liked to park in one of the two spaces around the far side of the convenience store. Those spaces couldn’t be seen from here.

  Eyes fixed on the area beyond the corner of the Speed-D-Mart, Sherry continued up the sidewalk.

  And saw the right rear corner of a van.

  Her heart lurched.

  Picking up her pace, she cut across the parking lot. With each stride, more of the van came into sight.

  A dealer in collectible books, Duane used his van for business but left it unmarked. The side of this vehicle was plain white, the same as his.

  The bumper sticker would tell the tale.

  Duane’s van sported a single sticker: I’D RATHER BE READING.