Poisonous Kiss

by Andras Totisz

  "You're Simone, right?"

  The skin on her shoulder nearly scorches his palm. The girl turns towards him, and there's hatred shining from her beautiful eyes.

  "Fuck off!"

  "I have to talk to you! You used to be Patricia Simmons' roommate, right?"

  "So what?"

  "Why did you move?"

  "Does it matter?"

  "It does."

  "We had an argument."

  "About a man?"

  The girl shrugs. Her face twitches into a sneer, a bored, contemptuous look.

  Arany leans on the counter. The woman is nearly as tall as he is, and their eyes are at the same level now.

  "You did fight over a man, didn't you? What attracts you to a thief and a murderer?" Arany asks in a hostile voice. "What turns you on, anyway? A good beating?" He leans closer to her, and notices little golden spots in her brown eyes. "You silly little girl!" he whispers "You think the world is at your feet? You got some bad news coming your way. You're wasting your beauty on third class guys—and you know why? Because you're worth as much as they are. You're shit just like them—that's why. And it'll show in a couple years. Your beautiful complexion is going to sag and wrinkle. Your great figure is going to start drooping. You're going to look like shit in a hurry, because that's all you've got inside: Shit."

  "Nice …very friendly. Do you always come on with this kind of charm? I've been called a slut before, but it usually doesn't happen until I reject the guy."

  There is something dazzling in those almond-shaped golden brown eyes. Arany leans back.

  "Where do you live?"

  "Will you get me a drink?" Simone waves the barmaid over. "What is your girlfriend going to say about you trying to pick me up? That is your girlfriend—or did you come here with your mom?"

  Arany grabs her shoulder. The beautiful features of her face twist into a mocking sneer. Her perfect skin seems soft under Arany's grip. Holding her flesh and skin between his thumb and the knuckle of his index finger, he pinches her. Either he's imagining it, or her look is sensuous, teasing. He pinches harder, and the sensuality is gone, the smirk disappears too. In the middle of the shoulder muscles there is a nerve. That's what he's pinching, not too hard, just hard enough to hurt.

  "Where do you live?" he asks in a soft voice.

  "On Derrom Avenue. Near the park. In a big brown brick building."

  Arany loosens the grip.

  "Bastard," Simone hisses. Arany instinctively strokes the aching spot with his finger. The woman looks up—not at Arany, but behind him.

  He realizes that the world around him had seemed to disappear for a moment. He hadn't heard anything except Simone's voice, hadn't seen anything except Simone's face. Now Arany can feel a the splash of warm breath on the nape of his neck. He hears noise: the deafening house music, the clink of glasses, women's laughter, and from right behind him, some inarticulate insults.

  He slowly takes his hand off Simone's shoulder and turns around. A young, widefaced flat-nosed guy, maybe twenty-five, stands in front of him. A loose T-shirt with something written on it, hair combed to the side and sticky with gel, a dark and dazed expression in the eyes.

  "I'll beat the shit out of you, asshole!"

  The man's head moves from side to side threateningly. Arany makes a practically unnoticeable move to turn aside so he can avoid a head-butt if one comes. Arany can't see the man's hands. He just hopes there is nothing in them.

  "What's your problem? Isn't the beer cold enough?"

  "What kind of asshole are you? You're bothering my girlfriend. I'll bust your fuckin' head open!"

  Arany can't resist glancing at Simone and saying. "This is your boyfriend, huh? Congratulations!"

  Simone says something, but Arany can't hear it. He's watching the guy whose hand is moving, as if he's about to take a swing. Something inside Arany responds before he even thinks about what to do. He throws his shoulder forward, to feint a punch, and the young man pulls his head back, out of range. He's waiting for the punch, expecting Arany throw his fist out and spin, leaving the back of his neck exposed to a quick painful blow. But the punch never comes. The young man waits for a very long half second as Arany drops his shoulders, raises his hips and pushes upward with his hands. He catches the young man in the shoulders with his open palms and the man staggers back.

  It's an effective move, rarely expected. A fight can begin with a shoving match, but when the combatants get serious they usually throw punches. Few fighters understand the power of an opened palm. Arany's attacker has a chance to learn about it now. His shoulders fly backwards, but his feet can't step backwards with them. He falls, and the only reason he doesn't land flat on his back is that there are so many people standing behind him. He bounces off of bodies and people clear away.

  By the time the flat-faced young man regains his balance, Arany grabs a beer bottle from the counter. He doesn't break it, he holds it loosely in his hand. He waits for the attack. He wants the attack. The young man hesitates. He senses the danger in Arany's posture, but this threat doesn't hold him back. He takes a fighting position, swaying left and right with his arms in front of him and his eyes narrowed. He watches Arany for a weak spot, an opening.

  Simone steps between them. The man tries to push her aside, but the slim girl is surprisingly determined.

  "Get lost, Pete! Just get lost this time!"

  "What's up? You got the hots for this guy?"

  "And what if I do?"

  Arany glances around quickly. He sees hostile, expectant faces around him. He starts counting and realizes he'll have to fight with a lot of them: The big-eared guy, the lanky guy, the greasy-looking one who probably has a knife.

  Then suddenly Slick, the good-looking guy who was with Patricia shows up. All his charming veneer is gone, only the smile remains frozen on his face. With a single punch to the side of the head, he sends Arany's attacker to the floor. Then his hand moves again, this time the slap cracks on Simone's face.

  "Get lost now, and don't interfere in the grown-ups' business again!"

  Suddenly Simone is obedient. She doesn't even glance at Arany, she nods her head and hurries away.

  Pete is finally on his feet, looking at Slick in astonishment.

  "What are you, fucking crazy?"

  "You're the crazy one. This is a cop. You want to be doing time? Get lost!"

  He pushes Pete aside and steps in front of Arany. His voice is calm, tough, kind of like the doorman at Patricia's place only a little more convincing. "So I guess you're done here, right?"

  He doesn't wait for an answer. He turns around and leaves. Arany puts the beer bottle back on the counter carefully. He looks around for Celia and sees her exactly where he left her. She's as white as paper. You want to analyze aggression, analyze that, Arany thinks bitterly. As he makes his way back to her, he doesn't have to elbow anyone aside.

  "Come on, I think we better go now."

  They head across the writhing, sweating crowd. After a couple of steps, motion becomes as difficult as it was on the way in. These people don't have the slightest idea about the scrap that just took place a few feet away. Arany walks ahead, making way with his left hand and arm, and holding Celia's hand tightly with his right hand. Before they reach the door, a well-built man, about thirty or so, in a suit, steps in front of him. Arany stops suddenly. The guy has reddish blond hair and a tough face. His shoulders are incredibly broad. He looks like he should be clumsy, but walks on air like a dancer. Arany lets go of Celia's hand.

  "You better not go out this way."

  Arany exhales slowly.

  "Where then?"

  "Follow me!"

  He starts walking along the wall, behind the security guard's back, opens a little iron door, and goes down two steps. Arany follows him. He's not holding Celia's hand, but he can hear her steps behind him.

  "Does this often happen here?"

  The man doesn't answer. He continues with calm, quick steps. Arany stops. They are
in a cold corridor with neon lights, and their shadows have been following them clumsily trembling on the rough walls.

  The guy suddenly stops. He looks back, and then turns back. He steps closer, Arany instinctively steps back. He bumps into Celia, and the woman lets out a sigh of pain.

  "Can't you stop asking for trouble?"

  "I'm asking for an answer."

  He reaches back to push Celia out of the way, but she doesn't let him. She holds onto his hand tightly.

  The red-haired man punches him. It's a gentle swing, delivered with a graceful economy of movement. Arany feels like he's been hit in the gut with a sledgehammer. He had tensed his stomach muscles, but it hadn't done much to protect him against this kind of punch. Arany leans forward, making a rattling noise as he gasps for air. He sees a pair of black leather shoes in front of him. He'll kick me in the stomach and I'm done, he thinks, feeling beastly rage at the thought of this. He tries, but he can't straighten out to defend himself. All he has energy for is to twist his upper body away from the red-haired guy's fists and black shoes. Still leaning forward, he stumbles a few feet away, then straightens up, pressing the remaining air out of himself. The redhaired man steps closer to him, and Arany raises his hand.

  "All right", he says quickly, "I don't want trouble."

  But the man is already moving. He pushes Arany against the wall. Arany flies back like a rag. He throws a defensive punch, but his fist bangs against a dense pack of muscles. Like a cement wall. The guy doesn't lose his balance, or his composure. His weight easily absorbs the energy in the blow.

  "You do want trouble," he says threateningly.

  "I want an answer. Why are you taking us this way?"

  "I don't want you to be beaten to death in front of the club. You're a cop. They might make us close down."

  "Who are these people?"

  "Customers."

  "All right, I see," Arany sighs. "If you don't want trouble, there will be no trouble. I'm not going to keep bothering you here. A couple questions and I'm gone. You can forget about me. Does this happen a lot?"

  The big man shrugs.

  "The kids do fight because of the chicks. It happens."

  Arany leans against the wall. He doesn't really feel like fighting with this bundle of muscles.

  "Do you often have to lead people out this way?"

  "Not everybody is a cop."

  One of the neon lights flickers and makes an annoying sizzling noise. The guy slicks down his hair and sets his tie straight. Celia is standing aside, inquisitive, she's been watching them with her eyes wide open.

  "And those who aren't cops?" she asks.

  The man looks at her astonished as if he was surprised to hear that she can talk. Arany grins, pulls out a cigarette, sticks it into his mouth, and then offers one to the guy. He hesitates, but finally pulls a cigarette out of the pack. He pulls out an oldfashioned Zippo lighter from the pocket of his dark jacket and lights Arany's cigarette too.

  "Those who aren't cops get beaten up outside, ma'am."

  "Nothing can be done to prevent this?"

  "You're not a cop, ma'am." He blows smoke toward the ceiling, and it's hard to decide if this was a question or a statement. Then he nods. "You are not a cop. If you were, you'd know that we can't do anything. OK, we might want to, let's say for the reputation of the Star. What could we do? We can't walk everybody home."

  "But in cases like this …" Celia tries.

  "Do you know how many they are? At least twenty or twenty-five of them are constantly hanging out here. Not together, but if there is trouble, the whole crew is here in no time. If we tried to eject them, at best they would never come to the club again, and we could close down. At worst a hundred of them would back the next day to smash the place up."

  "So you're afraid?" Celia shakes her head skeptically.

  "Not afraid," Arany interrupts, "just a realist. Tell me, is it possible that someone picked up one of their women and the person didn't get beaten up?"

  "If he hits on one of their women here, he's got trouble, but if the man met the woman some place else …why not?"

  "Thanks. Just one last question, and that's it. Has there been a major, fight here in the last six months? A fight where they were the losers?"

  "No, nothing like that. They beat up a guy so bad that his parents filed a suit against them afterwards. The guy spent two weeks in the hospital. But nobody saw anything, and everyone had an alibi. I think the parents finally let the suit drop. But as far as these guys losing a fight—no. I don't remember that happening. They rule this club."

  Arany smiles.

  "As long as they don't pick a fight with you."

  "They won't try it with me," he says with a vague smile.

  He throws the cigarette away, accurately puts it out by stepping on it, and heads towards the back door. Arany follows. After a couple of steps, he reaches back to grab Celia's hand.

  CHAPTER 25

  We were sitting in the dark car, and suddenly I started trembling. I was ashamed. I tried to stop, but all my strength had left me, there wasn't enough left to help me maintain control for a second longer.

  John wasn't looking at me, he was watching the entrance of that damned club. He was smoking, it was his fifth cigarette since we had come out through the back door. His nerves were also on edge, but he didn't want to show it.

  I had had enough of everything. I felt too old for this. I couldn't take it. I didn't think it would be like this. I got a headache from the rumbling music as soon as we went inside. I tried not to show it. I tried to suppress my jealousy when John was talking to that beautiful woman. I couldn't. When he touched her shoulder I turned away. I didn't want to see it. Instead I watched the crowd. I felt very old, and completely out of place.

  I couldn't help crying. John finally turned toward me, alarmed.

  "What is it? What's wrong?"

  He put his arm around me clumsily, and pulled me closer. I don't know why, but I resisted; my muscles tensed, and I didn't get closer. Maybe I wanted him to make an effort for me.

  "Let's go home!"

  He glanced toward the entrance door. There were several people coming out just then. A young man was explaining something very loudly to another, who couldn't walk straight. Two young women trudged behind them apathetically.

  "Are you tired? he turned back towards me, and stroked my face."

  "Why are we waiting here? What are you looking for? Why did we come here in the first place?"

  He put his cigarette out nervously.

  "I told you. This is where the blonde, Pat, picked up Frost. Then she argued with her friend, Simone, when Frost took up with her. Simone moved out, and I wouldn't be surprised if she spent a couple days at Frost's house. I just wanted to look around, that's all."

  I knew all this and I understood the first time. I could tell I was annoying him, being a wet blanket. I didn't want to be. I wanted to smile, to radiate energy into him.

  "I'm sorry," I whispered, "but it was so horrible …"

  "Were you scared?"

  "No, I wasn't." I saw his surprise. "I wasn't afraid. I was sure you would protect me, and that we wouldn't get hurt. But …it was so strange in there. It was like a primitive culture, like something you would see in a TV documentary about a tribe in New Guinea or something."

  "Yeah, we took a walk on the wild side." He grabbed my hand, leaned closer and kissed me. "Me Tarzan, how about swinging around?"

  I pushed him away.

  "Very funny!" I smiled. I must have looked stupid with the tears and a big grin on my face.

  "No, seriously. You're a researcher who just visited a different culture. You observed their mating ritual. It's not in New Guinea, but it is still different from the world you move in—less subtle, more savage. It's a world where Frost is very comfortable, but how different is it from yours? Maybe the only difference is that they're a little sicker. They have a little more of the aggression virus that your husband talks about in his book." />
  "That's different …" I stopped talking. I didn't feel comfortable with the topic.

  John looked out of the window again. The street was empty. It was late. At home, I'd be asleep at this time of the night, and so would Martin, even if he is a night owl, and sometimes reads in bed until near dawn. But I knew for sure he would be awake just then. He was waiting for me to get home. I suddenly felt a pang of remorse. I almost hated John for not wanting to leave yet. I didn't want to hate him. I didn't have the right. He came here to work, and I shouldn't hold him back.