Spellbinder

by Collin Wilcox

  But, because she wanted it so desperately, she couldn’t say it. So, instead, she sighed again. “Not now, Mother. Not right now. I want you to stay. I really do. And, besides, it—it’s important, that you stay here. For a while, at least. Excuse me, please.” She pushed her chair back, got up from the table and walked down the hallway to the bathroom. As she opened the bathroom door, she heard the kitchen door opening.

  Fourteen

  HE DROPPED THE DIME in the slot, waited for the ringing to begin, then looked carefully at his watch. The minute hand showed fourteen minutes past the hour, with the sweep second hand ticking toward the “6.”

  At seventeen minutes past the hour, exactly, he would leave the phone booth and step into the sidewalk crowds outside, on the Sunset Strip. Instantly, he would disappear.

  “Good morning. This is the Temple of Today.”

  “I’d like Mr. Flournoy, please. Mr. Howard Flournoy.”

  “Yessir. Who shall I say is calling, please?”

  “Tell him James is calling. He knows me.”

  “Yessir. Just a moment, sir.”

  Forty seconds later, with the second hand on “3,” the line clicked.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, Mr. Flournoy. This is James. I want to speak to Mr. Holloway.”

  From the other end came the sound of a sharp, exasperated sigh. Then: “I’m sorry—James.” The hesitation was pointed, plainly contemptuous. “I told Mr. Holloway about our, ah, conversation. But he won’t be able to speak to you.”

  “He doesn’t want to speak to me, you mean.”

  No reply.

  “He’d be saving himself a lot of trouble, if he’d talk to me.”

  “And you’d be saving yourself a lot of trouble if you didn’t call any more. Believe me.”

  The second hand was at “8.” One minute and ten seconds had passed.

  “If Austin Holloway won’t speak to me, then this is the last time I’ll call.”

  “I think that’s very wise.”

  “I’ll be writing him a letter. I’m going to write the letter this afternoon, and I’m going to mail it tonight. It’ll be addressed to Austin Holloway, and I’d advise you to pay very close attention to it. Because he owes me money, and I intend to collect it. He owes me a lot of money, and the letter will tell him how he’s got to pay it. How, and when. This is Friday. You’ll have the letter by Monday, at the latest. And you’ll just have a few hours to get the money together. So I’d advise you to be looking for the letter, very goddamn carefully.”

  The second hand was touching “7.” Less than a minute remained.

  For a long moment, quietly crackling, the line was silent. Then: “You’ll be arrested for this, James. You’ll be arrested, and sent to prison. Think about it.”

  “All right. I’ll think about it. Meanwhile, suppose you think about getting together a half million dollars, in small bills. Nothing larger than fifties, please.”

  Another silence. With his forefinger on the receiver hook, he watched the second hand tick past “4,” past “5.” When it touched “6,” he broke the connection.

  He switched on the overhead light, unfolded the letter and placed it on the top of the bureau. It read:

  Austin Holloway:

  Get together $500,000 in old bills, no more than $50.00 each. Put them in a brown paper bag, and have them ready by Tuesday. You will be called at the Temple of Today. I will tell you how to make delivery. You must do it, personally. If the police arrest me, they will learn about my mother and me. This is money you owe me. If you do not pay it, or if I find out that the police are looking for me, I will kill you.

  And that, father dear, is a promise.

  James

  He read it again, smiled down at the letter, then smiled at himself in the mirror. If the police ever found the typewriter, one chance in a million, they would never connect it to him.

  He slipped the letter into the envelope, sealed it, and glanced at his watch. It was time.

  The mailbox was ahead: a squat, blue shape seen through a moving forest of crisscrossing legs and arms and bodies that passed each other on the sidewalk, the Sunset Strip’s parade of the living dead. A jungle of prostitutes and pimps and hustlers, each one-eyeing the other, looking for an easy score. In the glare of neon storefront lights and sodium vapor streetlights overhead, their faces were hollow-eyed masks, subhuman. They could have been animals on parade: barnyard animals, marching along the sidewalk toward the slaughter house. Dead already.

  As he came closer to the mailbox, he moved to his right, at the same time glancing at his watch. The time was ten minutes after nine. The last mail pickup was nine-thirty. His timing was perfect.

  He broke stride, stopped, pulled open the door of the mailbox and dropped the letter inside. As the envelope left his fingers and the door clanged shut, he was aware of a surge of elation, almost as if a physical weight had left him.

  In prison, he’d once read in a magazine that a scientist had measured a man before he died, and then immediately afterward. The man had weighed less after death. The conclusion: yes, there was a soul.

  So it was possible that something had left his body as the door clanged shut. It wasn’t his immortal soul, though. It was the weight of memory: twenty-six years of second-class living, all of it behind him now.

  As he allowed the passersby to close in around him, he let himself remember the message: Get together $500,000 in old bills, no more than $50.

  A half million dollars …

  His. In a few days, all his.

  Today was Friday. Tomorrow, he would make his plans for Tuesday, move by move, minute by minute. Everything would be calculated, down to the smallest detail. He would write down the plans—but cryptically, so no one could translate them. “X” would mean Holloway, “Y” would be the drop site. And “Z” would be the money. Already he’d decided that, no matter how vehemently Flournoy might protest, “X” must deliver “Z” to “Y.” It would be his insurance. Because, with Holloway held hostage, threatened with certain death if anything went wrong, the police would never dare move against him.

  It would be a reunion: father and son, reunited after twenty-six years.

  At the thought, he realized that his hand had closed around the butt of Uncle Julian’s .45, thrust in his belt. During the five days since he’d left Darlington, the gun had been a part of him: warmed by his body, constantly within reach of his hand. If the weight of his soul was in doubt, the weight of the gun was a fact. Never again would he be without a gun. It was a guarantee—a lifetime guarantee, of power, and freedom, and all the money he’d ever need.

  Ahead of him, a flurry of violence erupted: shouts, a flailing of arms, obscenities screamed in high, shrill voices. Quick as a school of fish sensing danger, the sidewalk crowd came suddenly alive, watchful, tense. Some of those walking around him drew closer to the fight. Others shied away, fearful of the crowd’s straining bodies and the hot, avid eyes, looking for trouble. Jostling began. The violence was a contagion spreading instantly in all directions: a sudden fever of the blood, random and wild.

  He allowed himself to be carried along the sidewalk to the center: two women fighting in the gutter, locked together, rolling half under the wide, gleaming grill of a Cadillac. Blood streaked both their faces, one black, one white. Painted fingernails, crooked into claws, tore at flesh, hair, clothing.

  Two whores, fighting it out.

  As he drew closer, straining to see, he felt the close-pressed crowd suddenly shift: a silent, instinctive movement. The beast sensed danger. Following the slant of eyes and the twist of bodies, he saw a black and white police car angling across the street, blocking traffic. The car braked to a stop scarcely a foot from the fighting women. Two doors opened. Two policemen stepped in unison to the pavement, both of them carrying nightsticks. As a rumble of angry protest began, the two policemen advanced with businesslike precision, eyes front, still moving in perfect unison. Now they bent double, knotted their hand
s in the women’s hair, one bleached blond, one black. Brutally, using nightsticks jammed across the throat, the policemen forced the two apart, both men on their knees in the street. Screaming “Motherfucker,” the black whore suddenly kicked: a bare brown leg, its silver-slippered foot striking the other woman’s crotch. Another police car was arriving, and another. In seconds, both women were spread-eagled on the pavement, pinioned by a half dozen swearing policemen, their knees jammed into backs, thighs, crotches. The women lay with their heads flat on concrete stained with their blood.

  And still they screamed: as wild as animals, and just as dangerous.

  He stepped back, joining the sullen, surging crowd as it moved away. Behind him, the screams continued. As he walked, he was aware of a constriction in his throat, an excitement in his genitals, a shortness of breath. The sight of the two fighting women, wild with fury, had left him tight and anxious—as hung up and strung out as a junkie, aching for a fix.

  It was a dangerous feeling—a time for caution. Because control was essential. Control was everything. Between now and then—between today and Tuesday—he must be the master, not the slave.

  And yet, walking with the crowd, the bubble of stomach-tightened, groin-aching excitement continued to grow, as palpable as something physical inside him, demanding release.

  At the corner, waiting for the traffic light to change, he looked back. One of the police cars was leaving. It was all over. It was—

  “Hey, man.”

  He turned. A man of about thirty, short and stocky, wearing a fringed leather jacket and a planter-style broad-brimmed straw hat stood close beside him. Beneath the leather jacket, the stranger’s deeply muscled chest was bare, its pelt of thick, black hair crisscrossed by the rawhide laces that secured the jacket. Beneath the wide brim of the hat, his face was in shadow. Only his eyes were visible: two pale points of glinting reflected light, sunk deep beneath heavy brows.

  “Hey, where’re you going?”

  Standing motionless, he didn’t reply. This was the wrong time to talk to anyone—the wrong time and the wrong place. Yet, except for the phone call earlier in the day, he hadn’t spoken to anyone but the counter girl at a Burger King. So the stranger offered some small contact with the life that flowed close around him.

  Still standing motionless, with the passersby jostling him as they crossed the street, he allowed the traffic light to turn green, then amber, then red—waiting for the stranger to speak:

  “Those two fucking hookers,” the stranger said. “Christ, they’re fucking animals. That Rosie—the black one—she gets shot up, she’ll take anyone on. Last time, she took on a guy and goddamn near killed him. She kicked him in the balls, and then when she got him down she jammed her fucking spike heel into his face. He’s lucky he didn’t lose an eye. Gwen, she doesn’t know how lucky she is the fuzz came by. I tell you, she’d be dead by now, if the fuzz hadn’t come. And I mean, dead.”

  Remembering the fight, he felt something at his core subtly shift. The dryness had returned to his throat. Once more, his genitals were tightening, swelling against the tightness of his pants.

  Clearing his throat, he said, “You know them, then. Those two.”

  The stranger’s thick lips parted in a slow smile, revealing a pale gleam of uneven teeth. “I know of them. Which is as much as I want to know. Except that they say Rosie—the black one—she does things to you that you never forget. That’s if you like dark meat. Which, personally, I don’t. It’s probably my middle-class upbringing.” The thick lips twisted into a smile. “Some things never change.”

  “I guess not.” The traffic light had gone from green to yellow to red again. It was time to go back to his room, lock the door, make his plans.

  “Hey—ah—” The stranger came a step closer, lowering his voice. “If you want to score something, maybe I can help you. I’m not—you know—connected, or anything. But I know people that know people. There’s always a little extra something around. You know what I mean?”

  “No, thanks. I’m not into that.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Now the smile widened purposefully. “Well, what are you into?”

  He didn’t reply. In the silence that passed between them, the noise of the traffic and the confusion of voices around them seemed louder, more strident. Finally the stranger spoke again, this time in a softer, more speculative voice:

  “I guess you’re from out of town, eh?”

  He nodded. “That’s right.” He let a moment pass before he decided to smile. “Why? Does it show?”

  The stranger’s shoulders raised in a slow, noncommittal shrug. “A little.” Then, after another short, calculating pause: “What’re you looking for, then, if you don’t want to score anything?”

  “I’m not looking for anything. I’m just walking, that’s all.”

  “Walking, eh?” The purposeful smile returning, twisting slowly into a lopsided leer. “You’re a health nut. Is that it?”

  “Let’s just say I like to look. You know—like going to the zoo.

  The smile faded—then returned, wider now. “Hey—yeah. Right. That’s right on. It’s a fucking zoo down here. I mean, it’s a real zoo. I mean, I’m from Spokane myself. And there’s animals here that they never heard of in Spokane.” The stranger took another step closer. Speaking in a low, confidential voice, he said, “What about a girl? You want to meet a girl? I know a couple that you wouldn’t believe. I mean, they’re something else. They tell everyone they’re sisters. Which maybe they are, who knows? Anyhow, one of them’s about twenty-one, I guess. And the other one, she’s about fifteen. No shit. She’s fifteen. And, man, she’ll turn you inside out, guaranteed.”

  He glanced at the traffic light, once more just turning from amber to red.

  If the light had been green, he would have turned away from the stranger and walked across the street.

  But the light was red. It was an omen: a toss of the coin, heads or tails. In his billfold, he carried two hundred dollars, borrowed on Julian’s American Express card. At his belt, he could feel the gun, pressing into his stomach.

  Fifteen years old …

  Aloud, he said, “Fifteen?”

  A short, vehement nod. “That’s right. I swear to God. Maybe she’s fourteen, for all I know. Listen—” Now the smile was easier, more confident. “Listen, what’s your name, anyhow?”

  “James.”

  “Well, listen, James, if you want to meet her, I’ll tell you how it works. You give me a twenty, and I’ll put you together with her. She’ll take two twenties, Forty. And I guarantee, you’ll never regret it. Never.”

  “Ten for you and twenty for her.”

  “No way. I’ll take the ten, because you’re from out of town, and everything—like me. But she gets thirty. I could tell you different. I could take the ten, and tell you she’d maybe take twenty—and then I could split. But I don’t do that. I mean, I’m around here all the time, you know. This is my turf, you might say. And, next time I see you, I want to be able to do a little something more for you, you know?”

  “What is it? Is it a whore house?”

  “Hell, no. It’s just Gracie. That’s her name. Just Gracie, and her big sister.”

  “I don’t want her sister.” As he spoke, he reached for his billfold. “Just Gracie.”

  “Right. Just Gracie.” The stranger smiled as he took the ten-dollar bill. “Just Grade. She’s enough. Believe me, she’s enough. You’ll see.”

  “You want to take off your clothes, or what?” She stood with her back to the closed door, looking him over. It was a slow, thorough scrutiny—head to toe, then back again.

  Lying on the bed, he returned-the slow stare. “You like what you see?”

  “Sure. Great. You’re a regular picture postcard.” She pushed herself away from the door, and advanced toward the bed: She wore skin-tight jeans and a tank top. Her feet were bare. Her hair was thick and dark, and hung to her shoulders in lank, unkempt coils. Her body was slim and boyish, with
small breasts, lean buttocks and long, tapering thighs. Around her left ankle she wore a fine golden chain.

  He sat up in the bed, moving back until his back, touched the wall. Sitting erect, he crossed his ankles. Beneath the short leather jacket he wore—bought with the American Express card—he touched the butt of the .45 automatic.

  “I’ll stay dressed,” he said softly. “You get undressed.”

  Standing at the foot of the bed, facing him, she smiled. Her face was triangular, with broad cheekbones and a narrow chin. Her forehead was broad, her nose short and stubby. Her mouth was small and petulant. Beneath dark, flaring eyebrows, her eyes were small and dull, set close together. It was a closed, sullen face, street-wise and suspicious.

  The small mouth curved into a bad imitation of a sensuous smile. “You just want to look, or what?”

  “For thirty dollars, I want to do more than look.”

  She smiled again, ducking her head in a quick nod of agreement. It was an awkward movement, more a teen-ager’s mannerism than a hooker’s. But, when she raised her head, her eyes were hard and steady. Hooker’s eyes.

  She peeled off the tank top, dangled it for a moment from one finger as a stripper might, then dropped it languidly on the room’s only chair. Her meager breasts were conical, as small and pointed as sow’s dugs, with the nipples hanging down. Her arms and shoulders were thin and angular; her torso was narrow and sallow: rib-slatted, hollow-chested. A track of angry red needle marks ran up the inside of both her scrawny arms.

  Now she straightened, facing him as she unbuttoned the jeans, one slow button at a time. She was naked under the jeans, and the V of her parted fly revealed the dark brown hair of her pubes. With the last button unfastened, she hooked her thumbs in the waistband and pulled the jeans down over her hips. When the jeans fell to the floor, circling her feet, she scissor-stepped backward. She stood with her arms slack at her sides, legs together, facing him. Her hips and her legs, like her torso, were thin and angular, with bones showing through unhealthy-looking yellowish-white skin. Now her mouth twisted slowly, falsely smiling. But her eyes were narrowed, watching him closely.