A pretty, dark-haired barmaid catches Arany's eyes for a second, then turns away, bored. Arany sits back in his soft seat and crosses his legs. He should have come here with Celia. They could have cuddled up in a booth, he would have ordered some brightcolored cocktail for her and held her hand under the table. They would have watched the dance show, and the fluid moves would have reminded them of the sex they were going to have when they got home.
He glances at his watch. What is she doing now? What would she say if he called her now?
He swallows the last gulp of his drink and signals the waiter. The man takes his time walking to his table. His dark trousers sport an immaculate crease, his shoes are highly polished.
"Why did you come here?" he asks abruptly.
Arany is caught off guard. He doesn't know which of his answers would be more appropriate. The waiter's eyes are tired. Close up, he looks sad and old, his face worn with experience.
"What do you want here?" the waiter says again.
Arany pushes his empty glass towards him.
"Another whiskey, please. A real one this time."
The waiter stands mutely, then nods. He doesn't take the empty glass away. He walks with brisk steps, his skinny figure blends with the dim interior only to appear again in the lights behind the bar. The dark haired girl glances at Arany, then turns away again. Arany watches the dancing couple, who stop and go back to their table still holding hands. A dyed blonde sits at the table next to the counter, looking bored.
It was a damn good question. Why had he come here?
He'd started off chasing Frost, the ex-jailbird who's handy with a knife. The brutal, unfeeling killer. What lead him from Frost to Victor Delacroix, the elegant dancer, bank robber and killer? Had they simply known each other or did they also work together?
A dark-suited, slim figure takes shape in the dimness of the bar. There's a thick tumbler on the tray he carries. Arany contemplates the parts of the figure materializing slowly—the shoes are made of soft leather and they aren't polished like the others were. The trousers seem tighter and there's no trace of the crease in them. He looks up, and now he sees the face as well. He sees dark brown hair, slicked back with gel, thick, soft lips, a foolish, young face. The boy doesn't look at him. He puts down the glass on the table and deposits the empty one on his tray. He is turning away when Arany's voice stops him.
"When does the floor-show start?"
Now the boy looks at him and his features immediately twist into a look of fear and hatred. His lips agape, his eyes lacking comprehension he gasps.
"You?!" he whispers chokingly. He mutters something inaudible, then turns and rushes to the bar. Arany sees his rounded, girlish rump leaning across the counter. Arany turns away. He's positive that this kid didn't pick up fifty million. Who could Delacroix trust with so much money? A friend? A lover? A relative?
Ericsson had told him about the interrogation of Delacroix's brother: A carpenter who lives hundreds of miles away, in some small town. He has two kids and a steady local business. He hadn't the faintest about what his brother was up to. He'd been working all day and saw the news on television in the evening.
They talked to the parents and friends of the boys he had killed, too. The police had been informed that both had been nice kids, that the parents knew nothing of their plans, that some of them reckoned they weren't shot by Delacroix, but the police. Poor Victor was shot only to cover up for police brutality. The interrogating team had put up with its share of the sorrow and abuse of parents. They had questioned drunkard fathers, bitter mothers, confused siblings and tearful girlfriends. A whole team of cops was assigned to the job of finding out who else was working with Delacroix.
Why is it, Arany wonders, that I want to find this mystery person instead of letting the investigating team handle it? He glances toward the blonde sitting at the corner table. The woman turns toward him at the same time, and her painted lips draw into a slow smile. Arany toys with his glass. The loud, pulsating music stops abruptly, then the invisible DJ starts a new number. The blonde gets up, she slowly smoothes her skirt. Her crimson nails emphasize the paleness of her thighs.
The older, fox-faced waiter passes by. He doesn't stop, doesn't even slow down, he simply looks at the woman. Arany can't see anything, but the man must have managed to convey a silent message because the woman sinks back into her chair and carefully avoids Arany's eyes.
Arany takes a swallow from his drink. It was just as bad as the previous one. He signals the waiter. The old guy stops at his table and looks down on him with a hint of smile in the corners of his lips.
"How well did you know him?" Arany asks.
"He worked here." The old eyes, sparkling with cunning, look down on him.
"Are you sorry for him?"
The waiter straightens his bow-tie absentmindedly. He turns towards the stage as if he expected to see Delacroix there.
"What do you want to hear? He was twenty-four, a kid. If you want me to say I'm not sorry, I'll say so. Shall I? All right, I don't give a damn about him."
"The other two boys weren't any older and Delacroix shot from a window. Don't you feel sorry for them?"
The old man leans closer. His posture is deferential, his voice soft.
"Did your killing Victor bring them back?"
"Who were Delacroix's friends here?"
They both look at the young waiter, then the old one sighs.
"I didn't snoop into his business, but he clearly didn't chase any women here. Victor was a nice kid. He was a good dancer, too, and it didn't go to his head. Women were drawn to him and he played with them. They'd have done anything for him."
"How about boys?"
"Oh, he never took anyone seriously. He always had someone but no one special, if you get my drift. And if he was in the mood for women, it was the same. No serious attachment, taking it easy. Maybe later, going on forty he would have changed…but you killed him."
This time the music changes without a pause. It's a slow number, the couple walks out to the floor to start their courting ritual again. The middle-aged man wears and old-fashioned suit. His partner in her Sunday best is about his age. There's something silly about the way they play at young lovers: The man's macho, protective manner, her girlish innocence and enthusiasm. But at the same time it's touching, too. The woman sitting at the next table crosses her legs, the slit in her skirt opens and reveals her thighs. Arany lowers his eyes and turns the glass around in his hands. He looks up suddenly.
"I'll tell you something. I'm a nice guy, too. I have friends and girlfriends, who don't find it difficult to like me. There's a woman I love and would marry, provided she wants me, and provided I don't get killed by someone who's like Delacroix only faster with a gun…who else were his friends—apart from him." Arany nods toward the young waiter at the counter, who seems to be looking in their direction. His face is in shadow, so they can't see his eyes.
"Friends? With this snotnose? You must be joking! He didn't take the kid seriously either. He was on good terms with everyone around here. Including me. Sometimes he asked me for a loan, but he always paid it back on time." The old face looks more haggard, more worn now. "He was a great dancer too. He always had beautiful women as dance partners…I guess he was friends with his dancing partner. If you hang around for another half hour or so you can see her. She'll be doing a solo…hasn't found a new partner yet."
Arany decides to hang around for another half hour. Time seems to drag. He doesn't want another drink. The ice melts in his glass, making his drink lukewarm and bad. Women, he thinks. Women in love, women ready to do Delacroix's bidding. Is it possible that some charming young woman entered a bank God knows where, and drew out fifty million dollars? Or was it a more sophisticated, mature woman, someone trying to grab at the last rays of her youth by basking in the glow of Delacroix? Where did she pick him up? In the deafeningly noisy Star or here, in this bar? In the street? In a department store? What does she feel now that Delacroix
is dead?
The music stops. Blinding spotlights scan the floor, where the homely couple had been dancing. Then the music starts to blare again. A much younger couple takes the stage. A spotlight comes on. He's wearing a shiny tuxedo jacket with long tails and tights underneath. She wears a sequin-covered "danceskin." They do an unimaginative, stylized version of the old "Hustle." John Travolta would turn over in his grave if he wasn't still alive. They bound off stage. After a few minutes of silence the spotlight turns on and slower music starts up.
A tall, panther-woman appears. Her face is tough and cold. Plastic-looking breasts, routine gestures, a cheap costume. Arany tries in vain to picture her with Delacroix. In his mind, Delacroix will always appear together with his gun, the black barrel leveled at him as they stand on the black rubber matting in the passageway. He still smells it in his nostrils. Still feels the touch of it in his palms. He listens to the slow music, watching the gyrating, erotic dance. He hears the applause after the dance. Turning towards the next table he sees the bigheaded guy holding his girlfriend's hand.
When the spotlight comes on fifteen seconds later, a middle-aged woman is sitting on a high stool with a microphone in her hand. She begins to sing to taped accompaniment.
Arany signals the waiter. The old man must have kept an eye on him even in the dark because he materializes before Arany can lower his hand.
"I'd like to talk to that woman."
"Her dressing room is in the back. Don't disturb her now. She has another show in twenty minutes."
Arany nods, then closes his eyes and leans back. Celia! Whenever his concentration weakens her image takes over. He's afraid to go home. He knows what he'll find there. An empty apartment. What a pity he could never find solace in paid love! How much would the blonde in the corner charge? Or how much would Delacroix's partner ask for? She's wriggling on the floor right now, her slim legs raised high. She casts a queenly glance towards the audience.
After the number he starts in the direction of the curtain. He goes through a narrow corridor that smells of stale sweat. He knocks at the door, listens for a second, then knocks again, this time louder.
The woman wears a robe. It's made of some black and shiny material. She sits in an old armchair, her legs crossed. She's smoking. The ashtray on the table is full of cigarette butts, their filters smeared with lipstick.
"What do you want?"
Arany reaches into his pocket and produces his identification. He doesn't need to show it, the dancer recognizes the cop in him and waves it off.
"Make it fast. My friend might arrive any minute and he's extremely jealous."
Arany puts his badge back, leaves his hand in his pocket and leans against the wall next to the door. He contemplates the shabby dressing room. He feels some sort of disappointment.
"Were you good friends with Delacroix?"
The girl casts a quick, suspicious glance at him and puts out her half smoked cigarette. She draws the robe tighter around her waist and shrugs.
"He was a pal. My friend wasn't jealous of him, we knew he was gay. We talked a lot. Sometimes he took me home. Why do you ask?"
"Was he open about being gay?"
"I don't think so. He told me during our first rehearsal. It was an erotic number, I had to move close up to him and pretend as if I was trailing kisses on his belly. I had thought he'd get excited like all my partners had done before. They were notorious lady-killers and never missed a trick, but they got excited. And with him, nothing…so he explained that he was gay, but I got the feeling he didn't need that information spread around."
"So he had girlfriends then, other women who came around."
The woman looks him straight and hard in the eyes.
"Why are you so interested in his life?"
Arany doesn't realize the door has popped open, all he sees is the terror in the girl's eyes, the way she flinches as if expecting a blow. The man turns up in his field of vision only now. His face is dark and tough. There's no time for taking in further details. Arany sees the face getting bigger and tougher as it's getting closer to him. He ducks his head quickly, but the man doesn't hit him. Not yet. He towers above him in a menacing manner.
"What the hell do you want here? I don't know what you want, but I know what you're gonna get is a busted head!"
Arany goes rigid with shock. The girl mentioned her boyfriend was a jealous brute, but this wasn't what he'd expected. He tries a friendly smile.
"Relax, buddy. We were just talking."
"Go talk to your mother. You want to talk to my girl, it costs."
Arany glances at the dancer. She ignores them, as if they weren't there at all. She's preoccupied with her nails.
Then the big guy swings. It's a short, quick blow, aimed at the pit of Arany's stomach. The punch isn't too accurate, but it's hard enough. If Arany hadn't tightened his muscles, he would be on the floor of the dressing room right now, gasping for air. He recovers his balance but loses a precious second while trying to fight off the pain. This leaves him defenseless when the next blow comes. And it does come. The man is obviously a practiced fighter, not surprised when his victim doesn't go down immediately. His follow up comes quickly, like a reflex. His hard fist smashes into Arany's face. It hurts. It's not stars that Arany sees, it's more like a reddish explosion inside his skull. He staggers backwards, dizzy. He instinctively puts up his hands to protect his face, so he can't see the coming blow. He only feels it on his hands and his chin. He goes down slowly. His thoughts are hazy, but he imagines that he's about to be kicked. He isn't mistaken. He feels his ribs crack. He's not able to tighten his muscles any more, he falls and instinctively pulls up his knees and buries his face in the crook of his arms. He doesn't feel the kicks, all he knows is that the reddish haze thickens. The next kick gets his hand. The impact hurts so much that it somehow awakens his fighting spirit. He shakes off some of the haze, reaches out for the ankle of his attacker and twists it. Though his power has left him, the laws of physics still favor him. The man trips over Arany's body, his knee presses hard into Arany's chest. But Arany is through with feeling pain, he can't be held back by it, he goes on rolling and pushes the man's leg under himself. Instinctively, he traps the man's knee in a wrestling hold: Using his chest as a fulcrum, he pulls up on the ankle, so that the knee is pulled in a direction that knees are not meant to go.
All he sees are blotches. A large, blurry blotch in front of him starts to scream in pain, and Arany identifies it. Arany tries to focus, and slowly but steadily starts to rise. This hold is meant for steadying the enemy, not breaking his knee. But Arany doesn't want to hold the man still. He wants to break limbs, shatter bones. It isn't really Arany who wants to hurt. It's the beast inside him, the brute that inhabits his body. He stands up, and simultaneously twists the ankle. He doesn't just do this with his arms, he puts his whole body behind it. Then he hears a disgusting crack. This sound seems insignificant compared to the inhuman scream rising from the man's throat.
The fog in Arany's head clears. He is still gasping for air. He straightens up, and stands with his gun in his hand. But he doesn't have to shoot. The man lies at his feet half-screaming, half-whimpering. The dancer stares at them with naked horror in her eyes. She knows from experience she'll have to pay for this. Arany starts to back away.
He's still dazed from the beating he's taken. His nose hurts and so does his jaw. His whole face is in pain. His reflexes have slowed down considerably. He feels someone behind his back but he can't turn around quickly enough. A heavy, sharp object smashes into his head. Now he really sees the stars he had missed last time. Then his field of his vision is filled with a close-up of the shabby carpet. He crawls on all fours. His gun lies a few feet away. Someone kicks him, and he rolls over. He sees a foot, which kicks his gun even farther.
"Are you out of your mind? He's a cop!"
Arany catches sight of a gun again, but it isn't his, it's a bigger, considerably nastier looking piece. And holding the gun there is a hug
e hand, a gaudy jacket and a vicious sneer.
All right, you bastard, kick me! the beast in Arany roars. It wants to kill again, it isn't sated yet. Just kick me so I can roll over on my stomach. I'll just bring my hand up to my side and get hold of my other gun—Ericsson's disposable gun. Then I'll roll over on my back and blow your fucking brains out. And you, scumbag, you don't know about this gun. You kicked my service revolver under the table and laughed. It turns you on to think about torturing an unarmed man. How could you know that a police captain encouraged me to kill, what's more, he provided me with a gun as well.
"So what if he's a cop?" he hears voices from above. "What business has he got here? Has he got a search warrant?"
Arany braces himself for the kick, but it doesn't come. A shoe just gently pokes him in the side.
"Hey, you! Have you got a warrant?"
Arany slowly pulls himself up to his feet. The man in the red jacket lets him stand up and lean against the wall. Arany takes in a deep breath, then another one. Finally he exhales, slowly.
Poisonous Kiss Page 24
