"What more do you want from me?"
"Don't even go there."
"Listen."
There was the sound of metal on metal.
"What are you doing?"
"Cocking the hammer."
"Don't you dare jerk me around! Your father was the one with the balls. Not you."
"This is number four."
"Michael — "
"One out of three, now. You like those odds?"
"Cut the crap or I'll call the cops! They'll put you in the psycho ward!"
"I only want to talk. You know I love you…"
"Go to hell."
She slammed down the phone.
He set the cordless telephone in front of him.
There was a notepad and pencil on the living room table, alongside a drinking glass, a fifth of Dewar's Scotch, a nickel-plated Smith & Wesson .38 Police Special and a box of Remington hollow-point cartridges. The top of the box was open. None of the rounds were missing.
He picked up the phone and entered a number.
When no one answered, he dialed a second number.
After a few minutes he put the handset down again, poured out an inch of the Scotch, held it up in the light from the lamp and emptied the glass.
Then he took the Smith & Wesson in one hand. He swung the cylinder out, spun it with his other hand and sighted through the chambers to be sure they were all empty, then snapped it closed.
He laid it on the table and studied the notepad before taking up the phone again.
This time he got an answering machine.
"Hi," he said. "I just wanted to see if you're all right. Oh, by the way, I didn't get the check. I thought you said you mailed it. If it doesn't get here by Wednesday, I'll have to come over. You don't want me to do that. Anyway, say hello to Dad for me. You know I love you, don't you, Mama?"
As he broke the connection, a white light swept over the front window.
He blinked and looked up.
Now red lights flashed on the other side of the curtains. They might have been taillights but it was hard to be sure.
He lifted the gun, opened it, inserted one of the cartridges and pointed the muzzle across the room.
A car door closed and footsteps started up the walk to the porch.
There was a knock on the door.
He drew the hammer back and waited, not moving a muscle.
The footsteps went away and passed along the side, down the driveway toward the back.
A moment later there was a click in another part of the house.
He turned around in his chair.
A shadow entered the living room from the kitchen.
He squinted into the darkness.
"Jesus," he said. "It's you."
"I used my key," she said.
"I thought you were going to call the cops."
"What do you think you're doing?"
"What do you care?"
She walked over to the table and stood looking down at him.
"I don't," she said. "I just wanted to be sure you're okay."
"I'm fine," he said, "now. I told you, it's over with her."
She saw the box of cartridges with one shell missing. "What the hell is this?"
"My dad's," he said.
"And this?" She reached for his arm under the table, where he had the pistol. "Give it to me."
"Want to play?"
"My God." Her eyes grew wide, then glassy as tears spilled down her cheeks. "It's true. Oh, my God."
He raised the gun.
She took a step back.
He eased the hammer back down, turned the gun around and held it out to her.
"Go ahead. If I can't have you, I don't care."
She snatched it from him and held it in front of her with both hands. Her knuckles were white.
"You're a player, aren't you?" he said. "It's still one out of two. Or two to one. I forget."
"I should do it," she said. She nodded at the pad and pencil. "What's that, your suicide note? Perfect! I must have been out of my head. I only went to bed with you because you were so pathetic, always crying about her…"
"I told you, it's over. We don't have to sneak around anymore."
"I should fucking do it." Her face twisted up and she started to sob. "But I can't. I just can't…"
He closed the box of ammunition and placed it in the drawer, tore the top sheet off the notepad before she could see what was written there, crumpled it and dropped it into the wastebasket. Then he got out of the chair and faced her.
She stared at him, her lips trembling.
He took the gun from her.
"Stay," he said.
She kept staring, her eyes so bright that they seemed to give off sparks.
"We can talk about it in the morning."
She flung her keys down so hard that they gouged the floorboards and skittered away into the darkness.
Then she turned and crossed to the bedroom.
"Thanks for coming over," he said. "I can't stand to be alone. You know I love you, don't you, Mara?"
She slammed the door.
He smiled and threw his head back, laughing silently.
He started for the bedroom with a bounce in his step.
When he was halfway there he stopped and returned to the table. He reached down into the wastebasket and retrieved the sheet of paper from the pad. On it was written a list of women's names, at least a dozen of them, with telephone numbers after each one.
He smoothed the paper and slipped it into the drawer.
Then, just to be sure, he stuck the gun into the waistband at the back of his trousers before he followed her into the bedroom, closing the door behind him with a gentle click.
Got to Kill Them All
The sky was getting darker all the time.
I set the red can under the glove box and drove away from the pumps, steering with one hand so I could gulp down some coffee. Then I hit the brakes before I got to the street.
The can worried me.
It was still upright but I heard the gas sloshing. There were a lot of turns between here and the house. What if it tipped over? I'd be sucking fumes before I got home.
I reached into the backseat, grabbed the plastic bag from B&B Hardware and wedged it next to the can. But it wasn't heavy enough. So I had to shut off the engine, climb out and make room in the trunk, between the spare tire and the suitcase. That way the can wouldn't move around no matter how fast I took the corners. I turned the key again and headed east on Washington, picking up speed, with only one question in my mind:
Which of the following is a Burt Reynolds film? (a) Cannonball Run, (b) Stroker Ace, (c) Smokey and the Bandit, or (d) The Night of the Following Day.
I couldn't remember the winning answer but it didn't matter now. The gas station was history.
The sky was so dark by now that I had a hard time believing it was still early afternoon. The clock on the dash said the same as my watch, a few minutes past three. Rush hour wouldn't be for a while yet. I changed lanes, weaving in and out, flexing my fingers till the joints popped, the sound like little arcs of electricity below the windshield. I thought I saw a barricade of squad cars at the next corner, colored lights spinning, but it was only a road crew setting out detour signs. Their red vests glowed in the underpass. I shook my head to clear it and noticed that the coffee was almost empty.
I worked my way over between the trucks and sport utility vehicles, heading for Venice Boulevard. It would have been a lot easier to take Sepulveda to Lincoln straight out of LAX. I'd be home now. But this way I had everything I needed. I could do the rest in my sleep. As I turned onto Venice another question flashed before me:
In what film does William Shatner appear? (a) The Intruder, (b) The Brothers Karamazov, (c) Big Bad Mama, or (d) Anatomy of a Murder.
That one was easy. It was from Day Two, Show Five, the one we had just wrapped. How many hours ago? I could still see the answer on the card in front of me. I pretended to play t
he game, jabbing the steering wheel as if it were a buzzer. The horn went off and he glanced up.
The first thing I noticed was that he might have been anyone.
A beach boy, nothing special, the type you see around here all the time. Sun-bleached hair, sweat collecting in his squinty eyes and a walk that said he was not going to slow down for anybody. He stepped into the street and one of us had to stop. I could tell by those eyes it had to be me. He glared back like a hot spot on the glass and didn't move.
Then he did something strange.
He folded his legs and sat down right there in the crosswalk, daring me to hit him. I didn't, of course. The light was red.
I opened the window.
"Hey, you want to move it?"
He shrugged. Not defiantly. He just didn't care.
Cars were stacked up behind me now and they didn't like this game. The light changed. I heard a horn tapping. For God's sake, I thought.
"What's your problem?"
When I leaned out his eyes got big.
"God, you're him!"
I shook my head. "Move your ass."
"Yeah! The guy on Green!"
Busted. I didn't even have my makeup on. Did I? No, that was hours ago, in Honolulu. I would have taken it off. I checked the rearview mirror. My eyes were like two cigarette burns. I had a hard time recognizing myself. The kid's legs unfolded as he got up. But not to move out of the way. He started walking toward me.
He was going to ask for my autograph.
The rest of the drivers leaned on their horns.
I had to make a decision fast so I unlocked the passenger door. I'd drive around the corner and dump him off once we were out of the intersection.
When he got in I took a close look at him. New Nikes, clean T-shirt and jeans, no dirt anywhere that showed. He was not a beach bum and he didn't really have an attitude. He had just plain given up. He probably didn't know he was going to until that moment and then something—the traffic, the sun, all the people on the street who couldn't care less—made him lose it. Now I could see that it wasn't sweat under his eyes. He had been crying.
He closed the door and wiped his face. "Shit, I'm sorry. If I'da known it was you…"
"What happened?" I said.
"Oh, nothin'." He tried a laugh to make light of it. "My old lady. We had a, you know, fight. She kicked me out."
"Where?"
"Right here, in the middle of the street. Told me to fucking split. So I did."
"I understand," I said.
"You do?"
"She's a bitch."
"Well…"
"Sure, she is. Acts like you're always bothering her. No time to talk. When you call, she's never home."
"How did you know that?"
Which is proof that your wife is cheating? (a) Staying out all night, (b) mysterious stains on her clothing, (c) phone calls from someone who hangs up when you answer, or (d) frequent trips to see her "mother" in the hospital.
"They're all the same," I said. "Think about it."
"Yeah," he said, as if it had never occurred to him, "I guess they are…"
Now we were close to Admiralty Way and the grid of side-streets by the marina. It was hard to tell them apart in this light. Got to bear down, I thought.
"Where do you want me to drop you?"
"Wait," he said. "What do I do?"
What should you do once you know she is unfaithful? (a) Make her account for every hour of her day, (b) hire a private detective, (c) hide a Global Positioning Device in her car, or (d) kill her.
"Only one thing to do," I told him, "isn't there? How about the corner?"
"It doesn't matter."
"Where's your house?"
"I can't go back there."
"Maybe you should."
"Why?"
"To make it right."
"I don't know how."
"Yes, you do. Think about it."
"Okay. I will."
He squinted at the shadowy rows of condos as we neared the end of the boulevard. We both saw sparks of light like tiny fires starting between the buildings. It could have been the sun on the ocean except that the sky had closed over.
"I have to let you out," I said.
"Huh?"
"I can't take you with me. Not where I'm going."
"That's cool. The market, okay?" There was a Stop 'N Start ahead, at the corner. "I need some stuff."
That was cool with me. I could get a refill on my coffee, as long as it didn't take too long.
I pulled in between a brand-new Land Rover and an exterminator's truck. The mannequin on the roof had a tux and top hat and a big rubber mallet behind his back and he was standing over an innocent-looking mouse. On the way to the glass doors I saw the little rat out of the corner of my eye, twitching his whiskers and scooting away over the hood. Go on, I thought. You can run but you can't hide.
Inside the convenience mart I poured a big 22-ouncer, black. The kid was in the aisle where they keep the dog food and soap and aspirin and Tampax, for when you're running late and she gave you a list and you promised. I popped a lid on the coffee and left a dollar bill on the counter, thinking: Which method is best for a crime of passion? (a) Gun, (b) rope, (c) knife, or (4) gasoline.
"Good luck," I said over my shoulder.
The kid had a couple of household items in his hands. He must have wanted to do the pots and pans or something as soon as he got home. So he was going to try and make up after all. He could hardly wait. The poor bastard. I went out while he was paying for his stuff.
The mousemobile was gone. Now a pool-cleaner's truck was parked next to me, the kind I'd seen in the marina, sometimes in front of my own house even though our pool wasn't finished yet. I wondered if it was the same one. If it was, maybe I could do something right here before I drove off and took care of the rest.
Let's see, I thought.
I hadn't figured on this part and didn't have the right tools for the job. It wouldn't take much to give him the message, say a screwdriver stuck in a sidewall or the radiator, like a note on his windshield, only better. He'd know what it was for and look around and I'd be gone. Or I could wait for him to come out and see what his sorry ass looked like. Was he inside? I hadn't noticed. What should you do to her lover? (a) Make his life a living hell, (b) tie him up and torture him, (c) castrate him, or (c) kill him. But this was his lucky day. I wasn't sure.
Time to go.
The kid walked around and opened the passenger door like he wanted to get in.
"One question," he said.
"What?" I swallowed hot coffee, put the cap back on and took out my keys.
"Can I get on the show?"
"I don't have anything to do with that," I said, revving up.
"But if you put in a good word…"
"I'm out of here," I said. The sky went black like a shadow had passed over the earth. Night was ready to fall. I could feel it in my head. "Close the door."
"Okay," he said and got in.
Now he thought we were friends. He was really innocent. Like the Fool in a deck of cards, too busy smelling the flowers to notice that he's walking off a cliff. I didn't want to tell him the whole truth. He wouldn't be able to handle it.
"I guess you have to be pretty smart, anyway."
"Do you watch the show?"
"Every week!"
"Then you know the rules," I snapped. We were driving again and traffic was heating up. I couldn't waste any more time. "It's not what you know. It's what — "
"'You don't know!'" he finished for me. "That's so cool. All those other shows, you have to get the answer right. But on Green, one right answer and you're—"
"History," I said. "Look, I have to be somewhere."
"Sony Studios, Culver City, seven o'clock. Right?"
"Not tonight."
"But this is Friday…"
"We tape the shows in advance."
"You do?"
"Five a day. I just flew in from Hawaii. Yesterday San Fr
ancisco, Atlanta the day before, New York on Monday. A month in a week."
"Jesus, when do you sleep?"
"It's been awhile."
He held out his hand. "Ray Lands, right?"
"Lowndes."
"I thought you were live." He tried to give me some kind of brotherhood handshake but I got out of it.
"I used to be. Now they want it every night. We had to get some shows in the can."
"'Cause it's so popular?"
"Right."
He put his bag of household crap in the backseat, cheered up already, sure everything was going to work out. It didn't take much. Even if she threw him out again he could sleep under a blanket of stars and eat dates off the palm trees while he figured another way to get her back. That would be cool. Somebody needed to burst his bubble but I didn't want to be the one. I had things on my mind.
What is the best way to obtain satisfaction? (a) Catch her in the act and take pictures, (b) expose her betrayal on national television, (c) beat her within an inch of her life, or (d) tie her up and burn the house down.
"All ri-i-ght!" he said.
"What?"
He was still leaning over the seat and now he had his hand on the plastic bag from the hardware store. "You go to B&B, too! Over on Washington, right? They have everything. It's great, huh?"
"Great."
He reached into my bag and took out the long butane lighter. It balanced across his palm like a combat knife. He fingered the switch, ready to test it.
"I like these babies. For when you have to start a barbecue."
"Leave it," I told him.
"Duct tape, nails, rope…" He put the bag back down next to his. "Need to fix something?"
"Yeah."
"At your place?"
I stopped the car at the last corner.
"You better get out now."
"Oh, yeah." He took his bag from the backseat, then hesitated. "Need any help?"
"No."
A private security patrol car nosed out of the alley by the gate and sat there idling, the guard watching me behind tinted glass. I hovered for a minute while I downed the rest of the coffee and let it absorb into my bloodstream.
I could see the stars already through my eyelids and then the streaked sky over Waikiki Beach, the way it was outside the window of the hotel room when the storm started moving in, and my hand as I picked up the phone to call her for the hundredth time. I felt the rumbling of the surf. It sounded like a car engine. I opened my eyes and checked the mirror. So far there were no other patrol cars rolling up to block the way, only the one in the alley and while my eyes were closed he had camouflaged the front end so it looked like a trash can in the shadows. I saw waves churning in the marina. The water was blood-red.
Got to Kill Them All & Other Stories Page 20
