Poisonous Kiss

by Andras Totisz

  "I'll tell the truth," I answered hoarsely.

  He fumbled around for a cigarette. He didn't find it on the nightstand, so he stood up and went to the table. I watched his trim, muscular body. It was strange and familiar at the same time. It was mine. It was a frightening thought. John lit a cigarette and looked at me questioningly. I responded by shrugging my shoulder and he lit another one and put it between my lips. A cliché gesture of intimacy.

  I saw him hesitate and I suspected what it was he wanted to ask. I knew it for sure. I was shouting inside to stop him, but he couldn't hear. He stood in front of me naked, with his hands trembling, exhaling the smoke too fast.

  "Do you always tell him?" he asked, and I hated him for it.

  "Yes," I answered looking into his eyes. But I turned my back to him while I dressed. He was silent but he was there, behind or beside me, I felt him nearby in every part of my body. I felt his pain, the questions he swallowed back.

  He shouted after me only when the door of the elevator was closing behind me. I didn't' go back. I leaned against the door and I thought I'd cry, but I didn't. Maybe I didn't know myself as well as I thought. My footsteps made an echo in the doorway. My car was parked on the other side of the street, and I knew John was watching me through the same window that I had looked through to see rooftops only five minutes before. Behind him was the untidy bed, the proof of my infidelity.

  I knew that in another corner of town, in a small house, the light was still on upstairs. Martin was reading, but he was looking up at every noise, putting down the book every time a car stopped near the house. He would stand up and go to the window.

  Why did I do this?

  CHAPTER 16

  The trick is simple, and for that reason, efficient. To do it, Arany only needs a girl. A young, innocent looking girl with a nice smile. Arany will pay her twenty-five dollars.

  It's 8 a.m. People are grabbing coffee on the way to their offices. The unemployed are still lingering at home, waiting for the time when they can go down to linger in the street. And then there are the people who work at night and have just returned home. Like the bouncer of the Rumball. A name and an address from Arany's notebook. Another thread he can follow, hoping it will lead him somewhere. Not much of a thread, but worth pulling on.

  The air is filled with polluted, unpleasant heat. Arany sees the girl loitering in front of a shop window. He jumps out of his car. He needs somebody for quick, easy, legal work that pays well, he explains very rapidly. Enormous brown eyes study him. Enormous brown eyes smile at him mischievously; she's maybe seventeen or eighteen, old enough to awaken desire. But it was Celia he was thinking of.

  As they walk to the house where the bouncer lives, Arany feels other eyes on him. Hostile, jealous glances. The girl is good-looking, with long, wavy hair. She smiles at him, and he appears to be walking her down the street with bad intentions.

  "I'll just give him the letter, that's all?" she asks.

  "Yeah. It's a joke."

  Arany can see she doesn't believe him. They enter the building. It's nothing fancy, but it was still a world apart from the doorway of his nightmares. Arany stops, reaches into his pocket and pulls out some bills.

  "Here. You can leave as soon as he takes the envelope."

  Slim little fingers fiddle with the note.

  "If you still need something, you can find me down at the corner. There's a place …" her face lights up. "It has a picture of a bike on the sign."

  The building is already awake and full of life. The bouncer works until 4:30 a.m., Arany has checked. He gives him half an hour to come home, and another half hour to go to bed. Arany figures the man must be sleeping soundly by now. He pushes the bell. Electronic chimes play a simple eight-note song. Then silence again. Arany is considering ringing once more when he hears slow steps coming from the other side of the door.

  He winks at the girl. He hasn't even asked her name. He squats down and feels the nearness of her light summer dress, her young, sunburned thighs. He thinks of Celia and wonders whether she would come to his house again.

  The trick is simple. The bouncer, woken from a deep sleep, blinks in a daze through the peephole. What he sees is a young, pretty girl holding a big manila envelope.

  "What do you want?" a voice inside growls.

  "It's for you." She lifts up the envelope. She feels uncomfortable. It's really hard to speak normally with somebody you can't see, knowing he is watching you. And it's hard not to glance down at the man squatting by her leg. But he has warned her that looking at him would ruin everything.

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  Dead bolts open, one after the other. This door couldn't be kicked in by Carl or by anybody else. The guy is obviously not the kind to take chances. If nothing else, he seems to have learned about caution. The chain lets the door open a crack and a naked, muscular hand reaches out.

  "What the hell can it that be this hour?" the man mumbles, the way other people might in the middle of the night.

  Everything happens at once.

  The girl hands him the envelope, and as he grasps it, Arany jumps up. The girl is standing in his way, but he can't wait. He pushes the girl away, hears a frightened little cry, then the sound of a pair of sneakers retreating. He has no time to pity her. He catches the outstretched hand and pulls it, mustering all his strength. A thud announces that a heavy body has slammed against the door. The impact would close the door, but the trapped arm is in the way.

  Arany leans against the wall for support as he pulls and twists the hand at the same time. A painful shout comes from the other side of the door, only a few inches from his ear.

  "Shout like that again and I break your arm," he whispers. For emphasis he puts a little weight on the bouncer's arm. He doesn't need to use much force. He has the man's arm in a standard hold, and he can apply pressure easily.

  The bouncer doesn't shout. "What do you want?" he grunts.

  Arany has a quick look around. He sees nobody, but that means nothing. He can be seen from three different apartments if the tenants choose to look through their peepholes. They can call the police, or they can jump out themselves to help their neighbor with a knife, a bat or a gun in hand. It makes Arany nervous, urging him to pull the hand violently. I hope I don't have an attack now, he thinks.

  "Where is Frost," he asks softly.

  And he gives some pressure hearing the answer.

  "Who the fuck is Frost?"

  "He's about forty, pumped up, he likes to wear muscle shirts. No tattoos, only a scar on one hand from a razor blade."

  "I don't know him."

  Arany increases the pressure. A painful shout rises again, fading into a plaintive wail when Arany loosens his grip.

  "He used to show up in the club."

  "Like lots of people."

  Arany still pushes his advantage. He doesn't have much choice. Even though on the surface he's the master of the situation, that's only temporary. This scene can't go on forever. What can he do, if he doesn't get the information he wants? He can break the bouncer's arm, but that wouldn't get him anywhere. He doesn't want to do that, wouldn't like it at all. He is a little surprised, and a little relieved, by this feeling. Fortunately, the man on the other side of the door, doesn't know what Arany is thinking. He knows too well what he would do in the same situation and that doesn't reassure him.

  "He was there a few weeks ago with a girl," Arany tries. "She was slim, blonde, big tits wearing a tight, red dress. Don't say you don't remember her." He twists the arm gently. He doesn't need one more shout. But this time it is enough.

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  "What if I remember her? Let my arm free, man, I don't know anything. There was a guy in the club with a broad, OK? How should I know where he is? I'm not his wife."

  "That's better, friend." Arany takes his weight very carefully off the tormented arm. "Then I want to hear who his wife is. Or his friend. Who's somebody who
knows him? Who did he talk to at the club?"

  "I don't know, I only …"

  "Who did he talk to?" A painful moan again, the hand is covered in sweat. Arany feels a wave of nausea. "You or him, friend. A name and you can go to bed. Who did he talk to? Or do you think they would let their arm get broken for you?" He doesn't apply more pressure, he feels he's near the breaking point. "Nobody will know you told me. You didn't even see me."

  He's run out of arguments. A door opens behind him. A middle-aged man appears, his face registers suspicion, his hands are hidden behind his back.

  "Hey you, what the hell are you doing?"

  The trapped man inside can hear the question too. He goes quiet.

  Arany is seized by panic for a moment, he has a bitter taste in his mouth. His only thought is to run away. He loosens his grip without being aware of it and the bouncer tries to pull back his hand. Arany still can grasp the wrist but it's slippery with sweat.

  Then he is no longer aware of what he does. His own will is replaced by a more powerful, dark force. He kicks the door. A shout inside, the heavy, metal-coated door has slammed against the bouncer's nose. Arany pulls back his kicking foot, and without putting it down, he rests his sole on the wall for support and pulls the hand again, with all his power. He feels no pity this time. From the corner of his eyes he sees the neighbor jumping toward him. The man is only a blurred image. He can't see what's in the man's hand and he doesn't really want to know. He throws himself back, still holding the wrist. The bouncer's ear-splitting, desperate shout is mixed with Arany's battle cry as he kicks sideways at the charging neighbor. The kick hits the man's leg, but without force. The man just stops for a moment.

  "A name, you bastard," Arany gasps. But he's lost. His time is gone. A hard punch comes at his head. He ducks and feels it in his shoulder.

  He kicks again, shin high, like he's practiced with the gravel bag on the floor. It's a fast, short, merciless kick, but it misses. An enormous fist comes fast. Arany drops the bouncer's hand and instinctively raises his arm in defense. He doesn't see stars, just a reddish explosion. His block was late, and it only took a little off the force of the blow. He cries out loudly, in pain and frustrated rage. He throws a short punch to the man's stomach. When the man grabs his gut and hunches over in pain, Arany lifts his foot and then slams it down as he lunges forward, smashing his elbow against the side of the man's head. It's too late. It's all over.

  When he turns back toward the door, the bouncer has already pulled his hand back. The door is closed. Arany hears footsteps and the snap of a lock. Another door opens; another neighbor looks at the scene. This one is a woman with a baby in her arms. She shouts back something into the apartment.

  Time to retreat. Arany jumps over the martial neighbor, who lies on the floor groaning. He runs toward the stairs. The elevator is too slow. Muddy thoughts flash through his mind while he flees. A staircase again, he thinks, I can't stay out of staircases. I'll die in a damn staircase, like poor Carl. Suddenly his mind is filled with

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  pictures of the elevator, when he came up with that girl a few minutes earlier. He imagines the touch of her firm and appetizing body.

  He is running. Somebody is running after him, a loud bang reveals that the pursuer jumped over the last four or five steps …and that he landed barefoot on the dirty stone floor. It must be the bouncer. Arany stops for a moment, tempted. He wants a name, only a name.

  He hears the angry voices from the upper level, a woman's scream, men's shouts. The whole building is coming to life. Somebody shouts up from the ground level. A teenager.

  Arany hurries on. He sees the elevator stopped on the second floor. He steps inside and pushes the top-most button. While the small box slowly makes its way up he can't see, but can hear, his pursuer and the hubbub on the fifth floor. A woman cries about the beaten neighbor, he hears the man making threats, cursing. And he looks at a primitive sketch of a sexual act, scratched into the metal of the elevator door by an unknown artist with a key. The rumpus slowly fades away as he comes nearer to the top floor. It's a ten-story house.

  As he had hoped, the door leading to the roof is not closed. He is greeted by dirt and a sourish stench as he steps outside, but soon he is almost dizzy with relief as he stands in the sunshine, feeling free. He stops and takes some deep breaths, in a spot where the smell of the house can't reach him. Then he walks across the roof to a second doorway, which leads to another staircase and down into another building. The stairs to the roof are littered with used condoms. He goes one flight down, to the elevator, which is a lot like the one he rode up: It moves slowly and is decorated by the same artist.

  But this elevator has some differences. There is no bloodthirsty group waiting in this doorway. Arany is alone as he peeps out cautiously, then mingles in the morning crowd. The street is busy living its own life and isn't bothered by a little drama in one house. In a few minutes Arany sits in his car and starts it, morosely. He got away—but he came here in vain.

  After a few blocks he sees the place with the bike on its sign. A nice smile, a generous mouth. A slim, young body. A simple relationship, no complications. Firstrate sex, second-rate clubs, boring talks. Two weeks rest …he doesn't owe allegiance to Celia. She has her husband. She runs back to him like a spoiled child to her rich family after tasting the wilder side of life. She didn't promise him anything.

  He lifts his foot off the gas for a moment, then the sign with the bike disappears from his mirror. Why did he come to this place at all?

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  CHAPTER 17

  At four in the afternoon I couldn't take it anymore. When my hand started to reach toward the phone, for the twentieth time in five minutes, I stopped fighting.

  My fingers shook as I carefully punched the buttons. What had happened to me? What bound me to this woman? Our talks? Her shots? Or the way she entwined me like a snake while her hushed, rasping voice told me what she liked. I needed to hear that voice again!

  I only had to wait one ring to get my wish. She picked up the receiver quickly, as if expecting this call. Her tone was different now, politely official, but I heard a veiled whisper underneath it, and I felt like I would remember that sound forever.

  "It's me."

  A soft laugh. Her words were gentle, enticing.

  "I thought it might be."

  I imagined her sitting behind her desk. The patient in the armchair in front of her would try to look like they're not listening.

  "Can I see you?"

  A moment's silence. I could almost hear the words I've been dreading, could almost imagine her saying: "John, it was so good, but …I love my husband and …" it was fear of words like that that kept had me from calling. Now I was so afraid of what she might say that I didn't let her speak at all.

  "I need you." It just burst out.

  "Another attack?" She asked quickly. The patient in her office must be disappointed, because that's not the sort of remark Dr. Allesandro would make in a personal conversation.

  "No." I said after a moment's hesitation. If being sick was the price of seeing her, I was ready to feel ill all the time.

  "Did something happen?"

  I thought of the man I left behind with a broken jaw and a concussion. I thought of his wife, the way the sound of her weeping penetrated the elevator door. I realized that none of that bothered me.

  "Yes."

  She didn't ask what happened. She didn't turn the pages of her calendar.

  "Come here, right away!" I heard fear in her voice, a strange unreasonable fear. Why was she so anxious?

  I put down the receiver slowly, with almost as much uncertainty as I had when I picked it up. I was on the afternoon shift. I had to stay there till 10 p.m., doing a desk job where I wasn't exposed to danger, on the advice of the department's consulting psychologist.

  What should I say, what business would I have that's so important that I have to leave the safet
y of the office. I was so disgusted with the whole situation that I pounded the desk with my fist. I was alone in the room, so no one could see the outburst, and the noise and pain that follow helped calm me down.

  Somebody stuck his head in the door: "What happened?"

  I didn't know the guy, maybe he was new. I just smiled at him: "What happened where?"

  What did she think? Did she think I could come and go as I pleased? I suppose that's how it was for her husband, the famous researcher. I should have felt smug: I was the young lover and he's the old guy she cheats on. Instead I felt jealous.

  I stood up. Without even thinking about it, I grabbed my gun—a move that was becoming as mechanical as tying my shoes—and I started toward Ericsson's office. He had told me I could get anything I needed. A warrant, backup, technical assistance. I only wanted a few hours of time this afternoon.