His mind left her, left the crummy room, left even the more fevered movements of his own body. He began to think about the hit. Sunday morning, best time. Early, before seven. Then he and Johnny could be out of town early. Maybe they would go to Frisco. Or Vegas. If he could take the cash from this job and run it up a ways, they could quit. Say good-bye to the whole fucking world. Find a beach in Mexico and drink margaritas in the sun. The image filled his mind like a picture postcard. The sun, the peace. Johnny could swim all he wanted to in the perfect blue of the water.
Blue. Her blue eyes stared up at him, into his own gaze, and she probably thought they were communicating on some deep level.
Johnny’s eyes were blue.
He loved swimming and he was good at it, his slender form cutting gracefully through the water, golden under the sun.
Mac was in her now, thrusting, bracing himself against the bed. He began to build, gasping a little with each forward push, building, building. Sweat poured down his face, and he closed his eyes against it.
She arched upwards toward him, her soft sounds growing louder.
As he exploded inside her writhing body, he opened his eyes, staring down into her face, with its two vague pools and tousled blonde hair. A chill stabbed through him, because all at once it wasn’t her, this nameless broad, he was screwing.
It was Johnny.
His body finished its convulsive spasms, and he threw himself from her, huddling on the far side of the bed, staring blindly at the ceiling.
“Jesus,” she sighed. “That was good.”
Caught up in his own swirling thoughts, he didn’t answer. Johnny. No. It was just some crazy dream. Christ, he didn’t want to . . . to do that with Johnny. Not Johnny.
She rolled toward him, giving his still-heaving chest little kisses.
He ignored her.
Think, he ordered himself. It’s just nerves. The hit coming down. Johnny’s dumb conversation the day before about getting iced. Yeah, that was it. Nerves. Shit, that had to be it .Johnny, for chrissake. Hell, the guy had never been to bed with anybody. He was like a kid when it came to sex.
And I never wanted to do that with a guy, Mac thought. Never.
She was talking to him, but he couldn’t seem to understand what she was saying. Hell, he decided, enough of this bitch. I gotta get home. A pizza, he thought as, still silent, he got out of bed and started dressing. I’ll find Johnny, he never wanders too far, and we’ll get a pizza. Take it home and watch one of those damned old movies on TV. Johnny would like that. And once he saw the kid, the dream image would vanish. Everything would be all right again.
“Maybe we’ll see each other again,” she—what the hell was her name?—said hopefully.
He looked at her blankly, already unsure of what role she had played in his life. “Yeah,” he mumbled.
He drove back to the motel first, but Johnny wasn’t there. That didn’t surprise him much; he knew Johnny’s habits well. Leaving the car, he began to walk. Johnny would be surprised to see him. It would be enough to make him grin, probably. Poor dumb Johnny. Offer him a frigging pizza and some company and, Christ, you’d think the guy had just drawn a royal flush.
Mac shook his head, smiling a little. Never would be able to understand that kid.
He read the posters outside a couple of movies, but knew that
Johnny wouldn’t be interested in seeing the pictures advertised. Continuing his search, he tried the penny arcade and a couple of fast food joints. It was in a small, crowded bar that he finally saw Johnny. The blond head was like a beacon in the dimly lighted room, and Mac started over, figuring to have a beer here before getting the pizza.
It was then that he spotted the other guy, a slender, sharp-eyed man with a mass of dark curls falling into his face. The man was talking, smiling, gesturing. Johnny was listening, nodding. Almost smiling.
Mac felt a stabbing pain go through him. Johnny didn’t see him standing there and he turned and walked out quickly. As he walked back to the motel, he shoved the pain aside, not understanding the hurt he felt, letting anger creep in to take its place. What the hell did that stupid son of a bitch think he was doing? He was so damned stupid that if he started talking, he might say something that could get them both busted or killed. Well, that was fine if he wanted to screw up his own life, that was fine, but the son of a bitch wasn’t going to do it to him. No way.
Talking to some bastard in a bar. Jesus. The guy might be a cop, for all Johnny knew. Or a pervert of some kind. Serve Johnny right if something happened to him.
By the time he got back to the motel, Mac could feel the knot of tension in his gut. It hurt like hell. He dug a bottle of whiskey from his suitcase and sat in the dark room, smoking, drinking, staring at the door.
Chapter 6
Johnny saw the car in the parking lot and quickened his step. Mac was home. His mood lifted; the loneliness vanished instantly. He opened the door and turned on the light, feeling his happiness become a smile. “Hi, Mac,” he said.
Mac lifted an almost empty bottle and took a long drink, flicking a cigarette butt into the wastebasket. He didn’t say anything at all. He only looked at Johnny with eyes that were two chips of green ice.
Johnny’s smile lost a little of its brightness. “You came back so early. I’m really glad. There’s a Cagney movie on. Will you watch it with me?”
Mac stared at him. Stared through him. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” His voice was like ice water rolling over Johnny.
Johnny took off his jacket and tossed it aside. “I don’t understand, Mac,” he said very softly.
“Don’t you? Don’t you understand?” Mac’s voice rose.
Johnny sank down onto the bed in front of Mac. “Are you mad at me? Did I do something wrong, Mac? Because if I did, I’m sorry—”
Mac hit him. The open-handed slap across the face was so unexpected that it knocked Johnny half off the bed. Slowly he pushed himself back up to a sitting position. “Please, Mac,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah? Yeah?” Mac grabbed him by both shoulders. “Don’t look at me like that, you bastard, you idiot, you—”
“Mac?” Johnny tried to escape from the vise-like grip, but Mac dragged him back and hit him several more times across the face, knocking his glasses off. Johnny was crying now, making no effort to defend himself.
“I saw you talking to that bastard. Who is he?” Each word was punctuated by a slap.
“Just Simon.”
“Who is he?”
“Just a guy, Mac. Just somebody I talk to. He hangs around, like me.” Johnny tried to grab Mac’s hand. “Please don’t hit me again. I didn’t do anything wrong. I never said a word I shouldn’t. Don’t be mad.”
“How do you know what you said?” Mac formed a fist and it collided with Johnny’s gut. Johnny bent over with a retching gasp. “You’re so stupid you don’t even know what you’re saying half the time.” He hit Johnny again.
“Mac, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, so sorry, please don’t be mad at me.” Blood gushed from his nose and ran down into his mouth.
“You want to get us killed or busted?”
Johnny shook his head. “No, no,” he moaned helplessly, blood and tears mingling on his face.
“Or maybe the guy is some kind of freako; did you ever think about that?”
“I don’t understand.”
“No? Don’t you? Jesus, how can anybody be so damned stupid? How come I put up with you all these years? He could be some kind of sex creep. Maybe he wants to fuck you. Would you like that?” Mac stopped, breathing heavily. Something terrible passed through his eyes, something that Johnny couldn’t understand. “Or maybe he already has. What have you been doing, creep? Huh?” He hit Johnny across the face again.
“No, please, no, Mac . . .” Johnny felt an utter black terror filling him, a fear so overwhelming that it even obliterated the physical pain of the attack. He trembled uncontrollably, reaching out with both hands,
trying desperately to grab onto Mac. He wasn’t trying to escape from the beating; he only wanted to hold onto Mac and make this nightmare end. “Oh, please,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “Oh, please.”
Suddenly, Mac froze. His face lost all its color as he stared down at Johnny’s huddled, bloody body. “Ohchrist,” he said. “Oh sweet Jesus.” He crouched down and again his hand reached toward Johnny’s face. This time, he only touched one cheek, a fleeting caress. Then he stood and left the room, slamming the door as he went.
Johnny crawled across the floor toward the door. “Mac,” he whispered brokenly. “Mac, please, don’t go . . . I’m sorry . . . Mac . . .” But the door stayed closed. Johnny leaned against it, crying silently.
It was nearly dawn before Johnny finally dragged himself up from the floor. Moving like an automaton, he changed from his bloodied clothes, putting on a pale blue T-shirt that was too big, meaning it must have been Mac’s, and some clean Levis. He washed his face and combed his hair, then grabbed his jacket and left the room.
He noted dully that the car was gone.
Mac was gone.
Johnny had no plan, no idea beyond that of finding Mac, of making him know how sorry he was for being bad, of having Mac come back. He had to come back, of course. There was no other way.
He walked for hours, all day, not stopping to eat or drink or rest his aching legs, covering the area, looking anywhere he thought Mac might be.
It was almost dark when he finally started back toward the motel. A block away, he nearly bumped into Simon.
Simon stared at him, a strange light flickering through his eyes. “What the hell happened to you?”
Johnny realized for the first time that his face was swollen and sore. “Nothing,” he mumbled, trying to step around Simon.
Simon grabbed his arm, then released it immediately when
Johnny flinched in a new spasm of fear. “Johnny, who hit you? Was it Mac?”
Johnny forgot that Simon wasn’t supposed to know, couldn’t possibly know about Mac. He just shook his head. “I can’t talk to you. Go away and don’t come around me anymore. Please.” He spoke desperately. “Please.” He started to walk again. “Just leave me alone so I can find Mac.”
“He can’t do that to you,” Simon yelled after him. “You shouldn’t let that son of a bitch treat you this way.”
Johnny ignored him. The blue car was parked in its usual spot and he stopped by it, resting a hand on the hood, and drawing several deep breaths.
The door was unlocked and Johnny walked in.
Mac, shirtless and barefooted, was sitting on the bed. He raised his head slowly, looking at Johnny with reddened eyes. Neither of them spoke for a long moment. Johnny took a hesitant step toward him. “I’m sorry, Mac,” he said softly.
Mac shook his head. “Don’t,” he said. “You didn’t do anything. It was me. I know you never said a word to that guy about the business. I know nothing else happened.” He lowered his gaze and stared at his hands; both palms turned upwards helplessly. “All you did was talk to him. It doesn’t matter.”
Johnny sat down next to him. “You ran out on me. I was scared.”
Mac sighed. “I won’t do it again.”
“But I was scared.”
After a moment, Mac lifted one arm and pulled Johnny into a loose embrace. “I’m so goddamned sorry, babe. It won’t happen again, I swear.”
Johnny nodded, accepting that. “Thank you.”
Still holding him, Mac lay back on the bed. “God, I’m tired,” he said heavily.
“Me, too.” Johnny was quiet for a time. “Mac?” he said finally.
“Hmm?”
“Nobody ever did . . . what you were talking about.”
“I know.”
“Why did you say it, then?”
“Oh, shit, Johnny. I was mad. When I get mad and drunk, I don’t know what the hell I’m saying.” Now Mac was quiet, one hand rubbing across Johnny’s back in long strokes. “Can I tell you something, kid?”
Johnny nodded.
“It’s kinda weird.” Mac seemed to think before speaking again. “I was with this broad last night, you know, screwing her.”
“Yeah?” Johnny’s voice was soft.
“But then I looked at her and . . . it wasn’t her I saw.” Johnny raised his head and looked down into Mac’s face. “Who was it, Mac?”
Mac swallowed twice. “You.”
“Me?” Johnny bit his lower lip. Then he shrugged and rested back on the bed again, his head on Mac’s shoulder. “That’s funny,” he said.
Mac seemed to be waiting for him to say something else. Johnny sighed. “Can we go to sleep now, Mac? I’m so tired.”
“Sure, kid. Go to sleep.” Johnny smiled faintly and closed his eyes.
Mac stared at the ceiling, aware of Johnny’s weight pressed against his side, trying not to look at the bruised and battered face. There was so much to think about and so much of it was scary. He wanted to forget what he’d done, forget his despair during the last hours sitting here waiting for the kid to come back. Wondering if he would come back. That was a dumb thing to worry about. Shit, he could beat Johnny regularly, and still the guy wouldn’t leave. Poor Johnny. Poor me, he thought.
But there wasn’t anything he could do for either one of them. So he reached one hand to turn off the lamp and then he fell asleep.
He stood outside the window, waiting until the light went off. Driving back to his motel, he stopped at a red light. When the hooker approached, Simon gestured her into the car. They parked in an alley. There was only one thing she could do in the front seat of a VW, so she did it and he paid her twenty bucks. Then he went to his room and went to sleep.
Chapter 7
He made one more preliminary visit to Frost’s apartment building, fixing it all firmly in his mind so that he could tell Johnny every detail. On the way back to the motel, he stopped and picked up a pizza for supper.
Johnny was watching a Randolph Scott movie on the television, but he sat up with a smile when Mac came in. “Hi.”
“Hi, yourself,” Mac replied, putting the pizza box down next to him. “Haven’t you seen that before?”
“Yeah, but it’s not too bad.”
Mac took off his jacket and opened a couple of beers, then sat down with him. “You want to go see a movie after we eat?”
“Don’t you have a game or someplace to go?”
“Nope, not tonight. We have to make an early start in the morning.”
“Oh.” Johnny was paying more attention to the food than to him.
Mac thrust a hand-drawn map in front of him. “You study this.”
“Yeah, okay, soon as the movie’s over.”
He dropped the paper. They finished eating just as the news came on. Johnny had no interest in that, so he turned the volume all the way down, leaving just the flickering picture. “I don’t want to go anywhere,” he said. “Can we just stay here?”
Mac shrugged. “Sure, if you want.”
Johnny leaned back against the wall, studying the map. Mac watched him, looking at the still-visible traces of the beating. He sighed wearily, and Johnny lifted his head. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I’m just tired.”
“Why don’t you go to bed?” Johnny always had a logical solution for every problem.
“It’s not that kind of tired, kid.” He leaned forward a little, trying to ease the tension in his neck. “I’ve got this worn-out feeling that goes all the way through me. Don’t you ever get tired of this whole mess?”
“Mess?”
“This life we lead. If you can call it a life.”
“Oh.” Johnny seemed to consider the question briefly, then shook his head. “I don’t mind very much, Mac.”
Mac wanted, suddenly, to make him understand just how rotten it all was. “Johnny, I’ve screwed us up so good. There’s no way out. We’re trapped and there can’t be any happy ending. Not for us.”
Johnny set the map
aside and folded his arms, like a man fighting off a chill. “Don’t talk about things like that, please. It scares me.”
“It should. You ought to be damned scared. And it’s all my fault.” He got up abruptly and walked over to the window.
“Christ, you should have put a bullet into my head years ago. We’d both be better off.”
“I love you, Mac,” Johnny said.
Mac was watching the cars go by out front and he only half-heard the soft words. “What?”
“I love you,” Johnny said again.
This time the words reached him. Love? Mac wanted to laugh at the pathetic declaration. What the hell do you know about love, he thought. Shit, you’re like a baby who can’t tell where he begins and his mother leaves off. You don’t know what love is. You only need me.
He turned around, wanting to say all that, and found himself staring into Johnny’s face, into the absurdly blue eyes shining behind the glasses. But, he thought, if you don’t love me, nobody does. All these years. He lifted his hand and ran two fingers through tousled blond hair. “I love you, too, kid,” he said finally. “Very much.”
“I know.”
“Do you?” His fingers tightened in the soft strands. “Ahh, Johnny,” he said. “I tried, you know? I wanted everything to be okay for us.”
“It is okay, Mac, really.”
Mac grimaced and turned toward the window again. “Why do you like to sleep with me, Johnny?” he asked quietly.
Johnny was a moment answering. “Because it feels good,” he said.
Mac gave a bitter laugh. “Yeah, it does that,” he agreed. “Sometimes it feels too damned good.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Don’t you?” Mac looked at him. “Let me tell you a secret, baby. I don’t understand either.”
“Does it matter a whole lot?”
Mac was surprised by the question; he thought about it, then shrugged. “Doesn’t matter a goddamned bit,” he said. “If it ever starts to matter, then we might have a problem.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Go to bed, kiddo. We have to get up early.”
Modern Masters of Noir Page 40
