Poisonous Kiss

by Andras Totisz

  He pushes the door open and enters the hallway. He feels as if he left this place only a minute ago. Everything seems exactly the same: The cool, elegant hallway, the air-conditioning, the steps echoing in the long empty corridors. The small table next to the elevator hasn't changed, and neither has the security guard. The woman with the cold glance might turn up any minute, she'll walk along the hall in her stiletto heels and look at him disapprovingly. They've spent money on this building—enough to try to look elegant, but not enough to succeed.

  The familiarity of the place has an almost soothing effect on him. At least there is something constant in his life, he thinks—aside from human stupidity of course. The guard looks up and grins.

  "Hey! Congratulations! I saw you on TV."

  "Thanks. Thanks a lot."

  Patricia Simmons is at home. The guard promises not to buzz her. Fame has its perks. Arany glances into the mirror that hangs on the fake mahogany paneling in the elevator. He decides he's a slim, good-looking man, but then he remembers the real dandy, Victor Delacroix, and decides he should concentrate on the sign that flashes the numbers of the floors as he passes each one by. The sign changes quickly, almost too quickly to suit his taste. He doesn't want to meet Patricia, he has just realized it, but it's too late, the doors are opening, like the two wings of the curtain in the theater. The umpteenth act begins.

  Patricia Simmons wears a sleeveless, very short T-shirt with a plunging neckline and impossibly small pants. On her face is a look of contempt.

  "Scumbag!" She greets Arany. "You fucking bastard!"

  She stands at the door but she doesn't block Arany's way. She lets him enter. The door closes slowly. The girl folds her arms and leans against it. Her eyes are red and puffy, her lips swollen. She was carefully made up when they met at the agent's office, but now she is much more attractive. Still, Arany feels only disgust and contempt when he looks at her. This woman is in mourning for Delacroix, the man who tried to shoot him but missed. The man who forced him to kill. This woman hates Arany and doesn't care at all about the circumstances of Delacroix's death. This woman belongs to a different world. Her human body and their common mother tongue serve only as camouflage. Her world is alien, cruel and hostile toward Arany.

  He looks around, his eyes take in the relics of this world, the pink bed with the lacy head board, the soft, cuddly toys, the postcards and other superfluous knickknacks exhibited on metal and glass shelves.

  Felonious Barbie: There's a great idea for a new toy, Arany thinks. Could be a real hit. He recalls that some time ago he used to find other people's personal effects oddly touching. Old photos, a doll, a trophy of a long-past basketball tournament were all opening up a window, which offered him an approach to the world of the people who lived in these homes. A peephole providing him with information about people, often people he was going to arrest.

  Now all he feels is distaste. He's annoyed by Patricia Simmons's unimaginative collection of knick-knacks, the telltale souvenirs of an empty life. She picks up a pair of old jeans lying on top of a plastic pseudo antique chair and squeezes into them. She displays most of her breasts as she struggles with the jeans. Her beautiful long legs are clad in denim now. It's been a tantalizing sight. It crosses Arany's mind that Patricia did this on purpose. For a fleeting moment he believes he is the uncouth, lascivious and straight-laced cop that she sees in him. He is thirsty but he knows he can't expect this woman to go out of her way to offer him something to drink.

  Patricia looks him over, then reaches for the phone with deliberation.

  "Where were you yesterday?" Arany asks. His own voice sounds strange to him, his words sound hollow in this pink room. There is a huge poster on the wall, showing a muscular young man windsurfing. The photo was taken from a distance, fronds of a palm tree frame the figure of the surfer in the foreground of the picture. They are bright green, the sea is bright blue, the waves are frothy, white and cool.

  As she punches a phone number, the young woman eyes Arany with a sarcastic expression. Arany steps up to her and presses the button down. Patricia looks up at him, her eyes challenge him. Arany knows this look, any warm-blooded man would know this look. The temptation is considerable, Patricia's body is almost radiating with invitation. There isn't an inch between Arany's face and the young woman's naked belly.

  But common sense prevails. Celia's love—and maybe Simone's gorgeous young body too—had a hand in this dubious triumph. Patricia doesn't really want him. All she wants is to overcome and humiliate him, maybe to entangle him in some kind of harassment case.

  "Where were you yesterday?"

  "That's none of your business."

  Neither of them lets go of the receiver, their fingers touch. Arany suddenly hates this woman. He wants to hit her, to see her beautiful head snap back from the impact of his slap. In spite of his hatred, he feels his growing desire for her, too, and he is torn between the two emotions.

  He turns away and saunters off to the shelf to take a look at a china dog. The doggy tilts its head on the side. There is a ribbon around its neck with the inscription "Love Me," and a slot in the back where coins can be dropped into it. Arany sighs, annoyed. He decides that there's not much use in holding things back.

  "Delacroix's two friends managed to send off fifty million dollars to some unknown account before they were killed."

  "So what?" Patricia leaves the phone alone. She eyes Arany suspiciously, as if she fears he'd want to deprive her of her share. Arany smiles back, nicely.

  "I guess that money has been collected."

  "Not by me," the young woman screeches. "I'm calling my lawyer." But she isn't. Arany is quicker, he covers the distance between them in two steps and snatches the receiver away. Patricia's face is a study of defiance, fear and some sly delight.

  Arany doesn't know what he expects from the young woman. The detectives investigating the bank robbery will question Delacroix's family, his friends and acquaintances, so it's only a matter of time and they'll get to Patricia. If they find her. And if the girl lied and she did collect the money, then she'll do her best to disappear, melt into the background, and she'll succeed in spite of her conspicuous figure. If it really was her who collected the money. Arany doubts that, but he doesn't give up. It's impossible that Patricia doesn't know anything, she must know something and he'll get it out of her, only he has to discover first what this something is.

  "All right," he says in a resolute voice. "I'll take you in. You'll be allowed to call your lawyer from the precinct."

  Patricia flings herself into a deep, soft armchair. Her legs dangle in the air, she tilts her head back, so her locks brush the floor. She smiles up at him.

  "Go ahead. Take me in."

  Arany dials. He presses the buttons slowly, one by one, while explaining calmly, as if talking to a child:

  "I'm calling a police car."

  His tone is shifts, becomes more sarcastic. "I'll tell them that you resisted arrest, so they'll handcuff you and drag you out of the building. Every tenant will see you. And the beauty of the thing is that I won't even be here, so you won't be able to blame a thing on me. I'll be sitting at my desk waiting for you. Then we'll put everything on the record. You can call your lawyer till you're blue in the face, I'll have the warrant for arrest in my drawer by that time, so you'll spend at least one night behind bars. I don't care if you get bailed out the coming morning."

  He deliberately avoids looking at her. He doesn't want to see the magnificent body, the slim ankles and the fear and helplessness in that beautiful face.

  "And your lawyer can do me a favor," he continues blandly. "It was your boyfriend, who killed two men, so we have sufficient grounds to believe you might have been his accomplice. Don't you know that, when you went off to some bank to collect the money, you automatically became his accomplice in bank robbery and murder!

  "That's not true." The girl's voice is soft, almost wheedling. "That's not true," she repeats louder this time and in the voice of
a spoiled little girl, who has always had everything her own way. "That's not true!" She is screaming now. "You're lying!"

  "Victor Delacroix was your boyfriend, wasn't he?" Arany inquires coldly as he lifts the receiver to his ear. But Patricia rushes him and grabs at the phone.

  "That's not true!" She screams again piercingly. "He wasn't my boyfriend."

  "I saw you together."

  "So what? We were dancing. Do you know how many guys I dance with in a single evening? I might even dance with you, if I didn't already know what an ass you are. Do you think I go to bed with all the men I dance with?"

  Yes, Arany wants to say but he stops himself in time. It would be such a petty retort. He knows that this girl is already as good as his for the taking, he could do anything with her. Now he's really mad and hates Patricia even more.

  "Delacroix saw you home."

  They look each other silently in the eyes. Then Patricia smiles tentatively. Her smile gradually becomes bolder.

  "Yes, he saw me home," she admits. "He was a nice guy so he took me home. But he didn't want anything. And if you know everything there is to know about me, then you must know that he didn't see me to my door, not to mention my bed."

  He doesn't know about this at all because he was so sure of their plans that he didn't follow them all the way. He was happy to spare some time to take Celia home. He shrugs.

  "It doesn't mean a thing."

  Patricia Simmons peers at him coyly and runs her pretty tongue over her sensual lips.

  "Oh, but it does, sweetheart. Vic and I had nothing going between us. There wouldn't have been anything even if I'd gotten into bed with him. And do you know why, you super detective? Because he wasn't interested in women. He was gay."

  Arany freezes in concentration. He pictures Victor Delacroix in the Star. He sees his possessive arm around the waist of the most beautiful girl there. The man was cocky, rooster-like. He remembers Delacroix leveling his gun to kill him. It never occurred to him that Delacroix could be gay.

  "What? Just because Vic was a real man, you think he had to be interested in women. He would have liked you—he liked tough, manly faces. But you—you killed him, you bastard."

  Arany involuntarily glances at the big mirror hanging next to the shelf. He doesn't look tough and manly right now. "Oafish and idiotic" would be his choice of adjectives. Patricia eyes him ironically. The soft toys smile down on him. He feels claustrophobic among the knick-knacks in this little dollhouse. The cute decor is beginning to bother him. Somewhere in the city there could be a man who has just pocketed fifty million and wants to avenge the death of his lover. Or maybe the man blesses Arany, for getting rid of Delacroix? Somewhere in the city, maybe at this very moment, cops are questioning Delacroix's parents, his friends and neighbors. They might already know the name of his lover.

  He should get out of this case. He got into it by accident. It was his own bad luck that sent him on this trail. Somewhere in the city Frost is waiting for him, waiting for an encounter that will determine what Arany is really made of. Celia is waiting for him too, a woman who loves him.

  Could Frost be the lover? That muscular brute who slept with Gladys Ferrow and dated the gorgeous blonde woman sitting in front of Arany? That cold-blooded butcher who cut the throat of a night watchman, leaving a corpse that was horrid to look at. Arany remembers how he himself got violently sick at the sight—he can almost taste the bile in the back of his throat.

  The party Patricia threw included Frost and his friends. Victor Delacroix must have been the exception in the crowd—he was different from the others in many ways.

  Patricia's nipples are clearly visible under her T-shirt. She must be aware of this, but she doesn't do a thing about it. She stands there, motionless, with a curious, contemplative glance.

  "Come with me! Please!" Now Arany implores her sincerely. "I really don't want to take you to the precinct in handcuffs. The minute we get there we'll call your lawyer if you think you need him. We have to question you. I'm sorry."

  He detects a triumphant gleam in Patricia's eyes. She thinks she's won. She's seduced the cop at last. She misinterprets his pleading tone. She picks up a blouse and, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, discards her skimpy T-shirt in front of Arany.

  Arany wants to turn away, but he stands his ground. His mouth is parched, his palms are clammy. I love Celia, he keeps repeating to himself, as if it were a magic spell. A second later Patricia is buttoning up her blouse. Her face is expressionless.

  "But you'll take me home when we're through, won't you?" She asks when the elevator begins its descent.

  Arany thinks of his chores, contemplates their chances during the rush hour, but nods before he can change his mind. He doesn't look at the girl directly but steals a glance at her reflection in the mirror. She hasn't tucked in her colorful blouse and it comes down to midthigh on her. The loose blouse and shabby jeans can't conceal the slim legs and perfect buttocks. Her breasts are still haunting Arany, he doesn't even have to close his eyes to picture them again. Her face is her most beautiful feature. Her pouting, sensual lips, the high, well-defined cheekbones, her challenging glance.

  I love Celia. I want her.

  They cross the over-decorated lobby together. The guard tears his eyes from the screen of his TV and waves. Who knows who he is greeting? Arany makes a mental note to call as soon as possible. Celia is expecting him. She is waiting in the lab, surrounded by cages of white mice. She's waiting there with her husband, the genius. The good man, whose goodness even extends to such lengths that he doesn't want to clobber Arany to death, he is willing to explain all about the Q-virus instead.

  Arany will be late. It's even possible that he won't get there at all.

  The door is stuck, he has to push it with all his might. He stands aside so Patricia can step out in the street, into the blazing sunshine. He loves Celia! He and Patricia will drive leisurely through the city, his fingers relaxing on the steering wheel, tapping to the rhythm of music. Passers-by looking at them will believe they're lovers.

  And why not? He went to bed with Simone.

  I love Celia!

  Simone …a friendly, nice, warm creature …and this one here …

  Pull yourself together! She might even sue you! You'd better send her home in a patrol car. I love Celia!

  "My car's over there." He nods towards the hydrant. In spite of the sign on the dashboard saying "Policeman on duty," there is a ticket under the windshield-wiper.

  Damn! Arany starts towards the car, the girl tags along obediently.

  The sound of a shot. It isn't loud, it doesn't reverberate. It's more like a dry crack. The people in the street don't even notice it. Even the pigeons ignore it. When hearing the sharp crack even Arany hesitates, though he's had his share of experiences with shooting. A car might have backfired. A popgun, maybe …he looks around and sees bored people hurrying in the street, minding their own business. A longhaired girl cuddles up to her boyfriend. A drunken man gesticulates wildly, trying to enlighten the world about something of special importance but the world doesn't care about him.

  Arany hears slight moaning. He doesn't know why, but he feels he should turn to his right. Patricia's face is distorted by fear and pain. It's not beautiful any more, her lips are trembling, her eyes are glassy. Both her hands are grabbing at her breasts, her tapering fingers are clutching the bright blouse. Next to a bright blue blotch a red one appears.

  Arany feels numb all over again. The paralyzed, helpless sensation again! A car starts across the street, the one behind it honks, then both disappear. Patricia staggers. It has a sobering effect on Arany. He catches her in time. She's heavier than he would have thought. He wrestles with her inert body, trying to get a hold on it. The red blotch is getting bigger. Arany doesn't dare move her. He's afraid to grab her shoulders and help her lie down. He kneels down. People are avoiding them as if nothing had happened. Arany howls and suddenly he isn't numb any more. He 's kneeling with P
atricia's slender body in his arms for a second longer, then jumps up, cradles her in his arms and starts running in the direction of the building.

  He acts automatically. He does what he's expected to do, but he's not really there and he can't tell where his thoughts have gone. He calls the ambulance. He starts to call Ericsson, but realizes there isn't much for Ericsson to see. It happened very quickly. A crack, then a car starting. It might have even been coincidence. Any potential eyewitnesses are gone. He desperately tries to recall what he learned about first aid, but all he remembers is the kiss of life …there was a pretty girl in the group and every one wanted to get paired up with her …what else was there? Tourniquet? That's it! He has some rather hazy recollections about tourniquets. He is electrified by his instincts, by his desire to do something.