The Midnight Tour

by Richard Laymon

  “Will do,” Tuck said. “Thanks.”

  Eve handed the card to her. “Okay. I’d better get going. You two be careful. Keep me informed. And keep your Smith handy, Lynn.” She faced Dana. “Do you have a weapon?”

  “Look at her size,” Tuck said.

  Eve and Dana both gave her dirty looks.

  Smiling at Dana, Eve said, “A firearm. Do you have one?”

  “No.”

  “You should, you know.”

  “Well...I guess I could go to the store tomorrow...”

  “No good. There’s a fifteen day waiting period.” To Tuck, she said, “You only have the one, don’t you?”

  “Afraid so.”

  “Well...” Dropping to a crouch, Eve raised the cuff of her right trouser leg. A black, fabric holster was strapped around her ankle. She ripped open a velcro strap, pulled out a small pistol, then stood up and held it out to Dana. “You can borrow this one for a while. It’s a Sig Sauer .380 semi-automatic.”

  “I can’t take your gun,” Dana protested.

  “It’s just my backup piece,” Eve said. “I’ve got plenty of others. A girl can never have too many guns. Now, do you know how to use a weapon like this?”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  ICE

  “Don’t be such a gloomy gus, Owie,” Monica said, and squeezed his hand.

  “I’m just tired,” he said. “We’ve been on our feet for hours.”

  “Aw, poor boy.”

  “I think I’ve got blisters.”

  “Well, we’re almost home.”

  Don’t I wish, Owen thought. But it was nearly midnight and they weren’t almost home; after spending hours at Pier 39, they were walking along the Embarcadaro on their way back to the hotel. The hotel was not home. Home, back in Los Angeles, was a one-room apartment where Owen lived alone.

  Without Monica.

  It still hurt him inside to realize that he’d allowed her to ruin the Beast House tour.

  I should’ve gone ahead and finished it and the hell with her.

  Some sort of damn female power game she’d been playing.

  She’d won, too. And Beast House had lost.

  I lost, he thought. I caved in, and she wrecked it for me.

  After quitting the tour that morning, Owen had tried to remain pleasant in spite of his frustration and disappointment. He couldn’t quite bring himself to be the life of the party, but at least he managed to smile and speak to Monica and pretend he still liked her.

  At a restaurant on Front Street, he indulged himself in a Bloody Mary. Monica, between sips of white wine, tried to patch up the damage. “I honestly didn’t mean for you to leave,” she explained.

  He knew she was lying. People always lied after such preliminaries as “honestly,” or “to tell you the absolute truth.”

  She’d meant for him to quit the tour, all right. And she was no doubt secretly overjoyed that she’d wielded such power over him.

  “I don’t see why you didn’t finish it,” she said. “That was silly. I was perfectly willing to wait for you outside.”

  “Yeah, well.”

  “Why don’t we go back after lunch?”

  He shook his head.

  “You definitely should. I mean it, Owie. It would be perfectly all right with me. I’ll just wait outside for you.”

  “I honestly don’t care if I see the rest of it,” he said. “I saw enough. It wasn’t that great, anyway.”

  “I’ll say. What a ripoff! But I think you should go back, anyway. I don’t want to be the one stopping you. I don’t want you blaming me that you missed the rest of the tour.”

  And who else would I blame?

  “It’s not your fault,” he said.

  “I tell you what,” Monica said, widening her violet eyes. “If you’re sure you don’t want to finish the house tour, we’ll go to the museum after lunch. How about that? I mean, I’d sort of counted on going to the beach, but we can go to the museum instead. Would you like that?”

  “Let’s just go to the beach.”

  “You really should see the museum. We came all the way out here.”

  “No, that’s okay.”

  “Welllll...it’s up to you.”

  “The beach’ll be fine.”

  He meant it, too. He didn’t want to visit the Beast House museum. Not with Monica. She would be standing by his side, probably holding his hand, ruining it.

  After lunch, they headed for the beach. On the way there, they followed a sandy, unpaved road that led them past the windowless Kutch house. Owen gave the house a few glances through the chain link fence, but he didn’t even try to appreciate it.

  How could he appreciate anything with Monica at his side?

  As it drew closer to departure time, they headed back to Front Street and boarded the bus. Monica took a window seat. Owen sat beside her.

  He didn’t try to look out the windows for a final glimpse of Beast House or the Kutch House. As the bus pulled away and drove slowly through town, he stared at the back of the seat in front of him. He didn’t even turn his head for a look at the Welcome Inn, which had also been made famous by the Horror books and movies.

  She ruined it for me. All of it.

  Owen had a tightness in his throat.

  When’ll I ever make it back again?

  Maybe the place won’t even be here by the time I ever get back. Things happen. It might get shut down for some reason. It might burn to the ground...

  I might keel over dead or get bit by a car.

  You never know.

  This might’ve been my one and only chance in my whole life to really experience this place.

  Thanks a bunch, Monica.

  Somewhere past the Welcome Inn, the bus turned around.

  “We’ll be making one more pass through town,” Patty announced into her microphone. “It’ll give you a final opportunity to see the sights and snap a quick photo or two before we head over to the Highway One.”

  Final opportunity.

  On the way back through town, Owen kept his eyes forward.

  Monica kept her nose to the window. As they left Malcasa Point behind, she smiled at him. Patting his thigh, she said, “Maybe we’ll have to come back again sometime and really do the place up right.”

  “Good idea,” Owen said.

  Soon, Monica scooted down in her seat, folded her hands in her lap, and shut her eyes.

  That’s a very good idea, Owen thought. Take a nap. That’s when you’re at your best.

  He leaned out into the aisle for a look at Patty. She was standing up front, her back to Owen, bent over slightly and peering out the windshield.

  I bet she isn’t a bitch like Monica, he thought. She seems so nice.

  How about the other one?

  Dana.

  I wonder if Patty knows her. She must.

  Why not go up and ask her?

  Oh, sure.

  He imagined himself saying, “Hey, Patty? I was just wondering. I met a guide named Dana today. Do you know her?”

  And Patty answers, “Oh, sure, she’s my best friend.” And Owen says... what?

  What do I say then? he wondered.

  Doesn’t matter, he thought. I’m not about to go up and talk to her. And I’m never going to see Dana again. Even if I do get back to Malcasa some day, she’ll probably be long gone.

  I’ll never see her again.

  He remembered how Dana had looked in the sunlight when he was handing over his tape player. Her golden hair blowing softly in the breeze, her skin tawny and smooth, her eyes deep and blue and full of gentleness and understanding. He remembered her friendly voice.

  There are gals like Dana in this world, and I’m stuck with Monica. It isn’t fair.

  It hurt, thinking about the unfairness.

  Stop thinking about it. And don’t think about Monica. Forget her. Just think about Dana. Picture Dana. Forget everything else.

  Settling down in the seat, he closed his eyes and let his mind linger
on Dana. The images calmed him. She was so beautiful and sweet, and she seemed to like him, too. Soon, he pictured himself unfastening a button in the middle of her uniform blouse, slipping his hand inside and discovering that she wasn’t wearing a bra. He filled his hand with the smooth bare skin of her breast.

  When he woke up, the bus was nearing the toll booths of the Golden Gate Bridge. He felt very fine—well rested and somewhat aroused—but then he saw Monica slouched beside him and his good feelings ended.

  Luckily, she was still asleep.

  But she was wide awake and perky by the time the bus stopped at their hotel.

  Owen led the way up the aisle.

  As they neared the front, Patty smiled and said, “Hope you enjoyed your visit to Beast House. Come and see it again sometime.”

  “I will,” Owen said. “Thank you.” Then he handed her a folded five-dollar bill and added, “I really enjoyed your part of the tour.”

  “Well, thank you very much. Have a good evening, now, both of you.”

  Monica, behind him, said nothing.

  After the bus pulled away, Monica said, “What did you give her?”

  “A little tip.”

  “How generous.”

  “She was really good. You know, her talk on the way out.”

  “That’s what she gets paid for. You didn’t have to tip her. My God, you’d think you were made of money.”

  It’s my money.

  He thought it, but knew better than to say it.

  To change the subject, he asked, “Should we go up to the room for a while, or...?”

  “And waste more time? We haven’t done anything yet. Let’s go look in some stores.”

  For the next two hours, they roamed through shops along Fisherman’s Wharf, in the Cannery and Ghiradelli Square.

  Finally, Owen asked, “Are you getting hungry yet?”

  “Oh, I could eat any time.”

  “Maybe we should start looking for a nice restaurant.”

  She nodded. “Anyplace would be fine with me.”

  “Well...” He shrugged.

  “How about Alioto’s?” Monica asked.

  “Okay, sure.”

  They walked to the restaurant. After a brief wait, they were seated at a window table where they had a fine view of San Francisco Bay. Monica seemed delighted by it. Owen didn’t care, but he agreed that it was beautiful.

  He started with a Mai Tai. He munched on sour dough bread. Then he drank a second Mai Tai with his meal of crab legs. Monica sipped white wine and ate rare prime rib.

  She chatted happily, apparently enjoying herself.

  Good for her, Owen thought.

  And he wondered what it might be like to have dinner at a place like this with someone like Dana. Or even Patty. Or even...damn near anyone but Monica.

  What the hell am I doing with her?

  “What would you like to do now?” he asked when they were done with dinner.

  “What do you want to do?” Monica asked.

  Go back to Malcasa Point, he thought.

  But he said, “Well, there’s a Ripley’s Believe It or Not place we walked by last night. How about paying it a visit?”

  “Oh, it’s probably full of gross stuff. I’ve had enough of that for one day, thank you very much. Let’s go back to Pier 39.”

  “Okay.”

  “We missed a lot of things last night,” Monica pointed out.

  “Well, we can go back. That’ll be fine.”

  So back they went to Pier 39.

  There, Owen stayed by Monica’s side while she explored every shop. In each place, she seemed to look at every item. At the Christmas store, she bought a golden ornament depicting the San Francisco skyline. At the magnet store, she bought a Golden Gate Bridge refrigerator magnet. At the shell store, she bought a little seashell man driving a little seashell car. “Isn’t it just adorable?” she asked.

  “Very nice,” Owen said.

  Later, they stood around and waited ten minutes for a stage show to start. The performer, however, turned out to be Wilma the Wonder Girl—the same juggler/comic they’d watched last night. “Oh, God,” Owen said. “I don’t think I can watch her again.”

  Monica cast him a pouty look. “Aren’t we in a fine mood?”

  “Well, she was a smart-ass, abrasive, and not funny. And we’ve already seen her act. It’ll probably be exactly the same, except for whatever poor stooge she drags out of the audience to humiliate this time.”

  “If you don’t want to stay for the show, just say so.”

  “I’d rather not. I’m really getting tired. Can’t we just go back to the hotel?”

  “We can’t go yet. You don’t want to miss the seals, do you?”

  “They’re probably the same seals we saw last night.”

  “Aren’t they darling? Let’s go watch them. Just for a little while, okay?”

  “Sure. Okay.”

  “They’re just so cute.”

  So Owen walked with Monica to the far end of the pier. There, they turned and followed the noise of barks and roars to the viewing area.

  Out in the water a short distance away were hundreds of sea lions. Though they weren’t directly illuminated, plenty of light reached them from the pier. Quite a few people stood at the wooden rail to watch them. Owen and Monica found an empty space at the rail.

  “Aren’t they just wonderful?” Monica said.

  “Yeah, they’re great.”

  She squeezed his hand.

  They stood there watching.

  Owen’s feet hurt, but he didn’t complain. He just stood there and watched the sea lions.

  And watched them.

  And watched them.

  This is what Monica wants to do, so we’ll do it till she’s done. I’m not going to ruin it for her the way she ruins everything for me.

  Not many of the sea lions were swimming around. Most seemed to be piled on the numerous platforms, snuggling against each other—and on top of each other—resting or sleeping. Once in a while, one would slide off into the water. Sometimes, a sea lion would get tired of swimming, climb aboard a platform and nudge its way into the crowd. Every so often, a quarrel would seem to take place—two of the creatures darting their snouts at each other and barking. Mostly, though, nothing much happened.

  This is such a thrill, Owen thought.

  I can stand here with Monica for an hour and stare at a bunch of boring seals, but she won’t even stick it out with me to the end of the Beast House tour. How is that fair?

  “I guess I’m about ready to go,” Monica finally said. “How about you?”

  “I guess so.”

  She squeezed his hand. As they started walking away, she said, “We’ll have to come back and see what they do in the daytime.”

  “That’s a good idea,” he said.

  “I could watch them for hours, couldn’t you?”

  “I think we just did.”

  Monica tossed back her head, barked out a laugh, then said, “Oh, you’re such a silly.”

  Owen tried not to grimace as he trudged along the Embarcadaro with Monica. He probably wasn’t the only person with sore feet. The walkway was crowded with other couples and families heading back toward the main area of Fisherman’s Wharf—probably going to hotels or parked cars—now that most of Pier 39 had closed for the night.

  The crowd walked a gauntlet of beggars/performers: a man who stood motionless on top of a box, apparently doing his impression of a statue; a lone saxophone player; a legless guy with a cardboard sign announcing he was a disabled Vietnam veteran; a trio of bongo players; the traditional blind man with dog; the crippled woman with baby; a fat woman in dirty white leotards who danced like a ballerina and appeared to be quite mad.

  Owen glanced furtively at these people. He wished they would go away and leave everyone alone.

  Hoping to escape from them, he and Monica crossed the road. They ran into a few beggars, anyway. And a stumbling drunk. And someone passed out in the ent
ryway of a closed swimsuit boutique. But there didn’t seem to be so many on this side of the road.

  No matter where you go, Owen thought, you can’t get away from them.

  At last, he and Monica arrived at their hotel.

  And finally they reached their room.

  Owen pulled off his shoes and flopped onto the bed.

  “Not so fast,” Monica said. “We need ice.”

  Ice. For their cream sodas. Monica absolutely had to drink a cream soda every night before bedtime.

  Yesterday, after checking into the hotel, they’d immediately gone in search of a six-pack. The quest had taken them more than an hour.

  She’ll spend the whole afternoon hunting for cream soda, but can’t hang on fifteen more minutes in Beast House...

  And can’t go after her own damn ice, even though my feet are killing me and she knows it.

  Owen groaned, sat up, struggled into his shoes, and got to his feet. Then he limped over to the dresser and picked up the ice bucket.

  “Do you want me to go with?” Monica asked.

  “No, that’s all right. You can just stay here and relax.”

  “Do you have your key?”

  He nodded and left the room. And limped down the hallway toward the distant ice machine.

  Nobody else was around.

  Owen felt as if somebody had spent hours whacking the bottoms of his feet. The carpet helped, but not much.

  It certainly silenced his footsteps.

  Voices came softly from behind some of the doors he passed.

  He heard laughter, too.

  Nice to know someone’s having a good time.

  At last, he staggered to a halt in front of the ice machine.

  He set the bucket onto the rack underneath the spout, then pressed a button. The machine groaned and rumbled. Gobs of ice started dropping into his bucket.

  When the bucket was full, he released the button.

  The machine went silent.

  He heard the quiet ding announcing the arrival of an elevator.

  Ice bucket in his hands, he started back toward the room.

  And glanced to his left at the bank of elevators.