Deadweight

by Robert Devereaux

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  Stopping him: “I’d be more at ease without the dog.”

  “He’s not exactly Mister Personality, is he?” Danny said. “Wolf, old buddy, you stink something awful. Don’t you give me that snarl or I’ll tear your fucking head off. Come on, out you go. Me and Nancy are going to have some fun for ourselves, right Nancy?, and when we’re done, you smelly old animal, I’ll give you a bath, how’s that? No, no, take your snout out of the door and get lost.” Wolf slinked off down the hall, tail drooping, trailing clouds of death stench after him. Danny closed the door, resting his forehead against the painted wood.

  “Are you all right, lover?” she asked.

  He winced, his face hidden. Then he put on a smile. “Right as rain.” He looked over at her, twisting his body about so that the door rested a cool flat hand across his shoulder blades. “You want him gone?”

  “No.” Too quick. Freighted with meaning. No, not yet. Not until after we’ve done it. Not until dead old Clarence gets the final slap in the face, the final tweak to his dick, that he’s got coming. From the look on her face, it was clear she’d hated her fat fuck of a husband for a long time.

  Danny shrugged. “Fine.” He approached on her right, idly fondling himself. He gentled one hand down upon her gun hand, noted that her finger was off the trigger. “We don’t really need this any more. Why don’t we bring the big gun into play?” His voice was calm and soothing, his face placid, and he knew it; but behind all that, violent thoughts were scrapping like a roomful of brats pummeling one another over who got to go first. He’d had vicious thoughts before, even acted on some of them, but never the worst of them. Those had always been nipped by conscience when they were no more than wicked hints, long before they had a chance to bud into notions, bloom into urgent ideas, propagate and flourish into lush gardens of obsession. No conscience now, or if one just a tiny niggle, while around it, the titanic struggle of sick lusts went on, concealed from its intended victim by guile alone.

  Her hand tensed under his. Then relaxed, let the gun glide smoothly out from beneath it. The fingernails, not long, were painted a brilliant red. Her fingers closed as tight as greed around his wrist. Transferring the gun, he reached to set it down on the nightstand, as Nancy clasped his other hand, an ardent sinner feverish with prayer, and brought it to her old-lady lips.

  Danny knelt beside her on the bed, towering over her. Her left hand toyed idly at her breast, unfocused, while all her energy was in her eyes and in the contrived writhe of her body and in the right hand that sculpted along his torso and hip and quickly wrapped itself about his penis. She was ugly and old, this one, and trying to make up for lost time. The peignoir was the pullover kind, a bow or two at the top. He took it in his hands, swirling at the frilly stuff like a diver trying to clear away clouds of squid ink. It ripped, she gasped, and he tore it easily off her with his new strength, yanking it out from under her and letting the damned thing drift like a black ghost over the far side of the bed.

  Then he gentled her hand off him and straddled her naked body, feeling the warmth of her hips on the inside of his legs just above the knees, his hands pressing the edges of her pillow into the mattress but not touching her head, not yet. Her eyes were greedy on his body and her imperfectly round mouth oohed and aahed. His sex snaked through the tired kink of her pubic hair and up along her flabby belly, balls skidding after. He inched his knees along the sides of her body like a boy crawling through a long stretch of tight unlaid industrial pipe. She had her hands on his chest as it moved upward, continually molding him to her fantasy.

  Then he slid snugly into the valley of her breasts, rocking back and forth as his hands reached down from the sill they’d attained and caressed her face. Her fingers tickled up and down his back and she had her neck arched and was looking up longingly at him. Sure, he was just a little hot, but the greater his excitation grew, the more his roomful of brats scrabbled for primacy. And then one of them emerged triumphant from the writhing pack, caught Danny’s ear, told him in tones that did not allow for any back talk exactly what he needed to do.

  But that voice both propelled him and waked the tiny natter of conscience. Blooming full blown, it made his head throb with pain, a white stone statue standing aghast

  and helpless amidst the snickering brats as his body, and indeed his will, obeyed without hesitation.

  His thumbs gently stroked Nancy’s lined brow, soothed the pouches under her eyes, rounded in twinned motion the subtle convex of her closed eyelids, lifted off a fraction of a hair—and jackknifed deep into the sockets, the spray of her eye fluids hot against his palms, the cry quick in her mouth like flushed ravens. Still pistoning below, he pulled out of the popped grapes—mulled wine a mix of red and white—and wrapped his hands around her throat. Her nails clawed savagely at his back, digging and tearing at him wildly, without plan. He tightened about her throat, feeling something pop there, feeling the rage rise in him with the jism, and then his organ was shooting the stuff out and it burned like lava dragging fishhooks after it. Jets spattered at her eye sockets and into her mouth, weak and red and gasping for breath. She bucked beneath him, but tight and out of control, not nice like a woman all loose and cozy, more like the Mexican chick in that snuff film. But Nancy took longer to die and she gave him lots more pleasure doing it than any hoodwinked whore on any stinking video ever could.

  But mixed with that undeniable pleasure was the head-hurt of his frozen appalled conscience, sickened at what he’d done and longing for death.

  ***

  Danny washed Wolf in the downstairs bathtub, draining it three times and using half a bottle of Prell on Wolf’s body fur and several handfuls of Johnson’s Baby Shampoo on his head and ears and snout. The sight of him was almost comical. Wolf had always daunted strangers, what with the size of him, even as a pup, and the distrustful snarl-face Danny had trained him to show to anyone but him and Karin. But now, there was a new warp behind those eyes, and a new sense of bulk about him, that made Danny feel like he was washing a werewolf rather than a German shepherd. Yet the dog sat obediently in the suds, loving his bath as always, and any outflingings were Danny’s fault, not his.

  Still, running his fingers through that vile fur made Danny feel unclean again, and he took another quick shower after it was over. Then he cinched on one of Clarence’s old robes, a tent of terrycloth, and raided the fridge. He was careful at first to go easy on the food, savoring every bite and making sure with each swallow that it was going nowhere but down. When he was sure his system had adjusted to taking in nutrition, he arrayed the leftovers and munchies from the pantry on Nancy’s kitchen table and took one amazing bite of each food: the snick and crunch of a Macintosh, the yummy mush of a banana, the white stringy fullness of chicken breast wadded up in his mouth, and the riot of flavors in Nancy’s covered casseroles and salads. Old gal’d been a good cook. That fucking shitwad Clarence hadn’t appreciated Nancy like he oughta.

  The doorbell rang.

  Danny froze, then relaxed. He had looked through the Bensons’ papers in case something like this happened, and he had his story down pat. And if little Miss or Mister Neighbor looked the least bit askance as he spoke, Danny’d just haul them the fuck inside the house and take care of them quick and easy. That’s why God had given him hands and, this time around, the strength to use them.

  “Stay, Wolf.” When Wolf sat, Danny could almost feel the kitchen shudder with the weight of him. He retied the terrycloth cinch and made his way through the TV room to the vestibule, where he’d had the foresight to sponge off as much of Clarence’s blood as he could. The rest wasn’t noticeable unless you were looking for it. Danny saw cop blue through the beveled glass window, so he was able to prepare his face.

  “Evening.”

  “Evening, officer.” An Adam’s-apple wimp with an ego as solid as brick. Danny felt like he was examining a bug under a microscope, one he could crush with a thumb.

  “You’
re not . . . ,” he looked at his clipboard, “are you Mister Clarence Benson?”

  “His son. Home for Easter. James is the name. My folks have gone to bed.”

  The cop gave him a look. Easter’s over, what’s a guy your age doing at his parents’ house the week after, when most regular joes are back at work, didn’t mention a wife, maybe you’re one of those homos, maybe you’re one of those damned eternal students taking your doctorate in advanced basket weaving. Danny wanted to rip the asshole’s jaw off and rake his eyes out with his own teeth. Held back. He saw the other cop waiting in the squad car, didn’t want to invite bullets and backup, didn’t want to queer his chance to get at Karin.

  “Seen or heard anything out of the ordinary tonight, Mister Benson?”

  “Not a thing.”

  “No loud noises? No suspicious characters? We’re looking for a man with a large dog.”

  “No, other than a backfire off in the direction of the cemetery, nothing.”

  The geek asked him when that was, he said maybe two hours ago, then the guy nodded and left.

  Back in the kitchen, Danny picked up the wall phone and punched in a number. One ring. Two. Part way into three, she picked it up.

  He thought she said “Daniels,” but it sounded funny, like Taniels or Tannels. What the fuck, the word didn’t matter, it was the voice that counted, her voice. He cupped the mouthpiece. Cupped it quick and hard because he felt the sound coming unstoppable out of him. Damped it down before a tight trill eeked out, but his body was suddenly full of warring emotions, not like with old lady Nancy where there’d been modes of viciousness; no, these were deeply rooted in him and of all varieties—undying love, resentment so dark it blinded him, a need to crush her to him, a need to kiss and hold her and give her his prick-love, to cry little-boy tears against her bosom, to smell that goddess aroma of hers just at the nose; a need to peel her flesh off, strip by strip, to tie her up and wallop her with his open hand, to bruise her, to bleed the fuck out of her, to stick every last one of his swords and knives into her at her edges, so she wouldn’t die until he twisted into her heart the kriss she’d killed him with.

  The head-throb began again as the violent images grew his conscience anew, aghast at his ideas. His skull hurt. And it was her fault. Damned women birthed a man into the world but their bellies weren’t strong enough to grow him deathless. Now this woman had brought him back, perhaps proof against death, but she’d neglected to harmonize his head with the rest of him.

  “Hello?” she said, concerned, then “hello,” flat and suspicious. Another second and—no don’t hang up!—she hung up.

  “I’ll get you, you simpering bitch.” His voice felt raw and thick, clogged with hamburger meat. “I’ll get you good.” The saying of it wasn’t enough to calm him. He almost slammed the phone into the fridge, but then he thought of Nona, dark-eyed succubus with a lush wide mouth and a body that gave and gave like there was no tomorrow.

  Lust-fever and the need to savage Nona, to flurry in her blood, waved up green and glittery and dashed down on conscience, drove it away and stopped cold the pounding in his head. Now there was only pure urge.

  He riffled through the phone book, found her number. What if Jimmy answered, nope, wall clock said twelve past ten, he’d be at work by now. He missed a digit, started over, got it right. It took six rings but she was there.

  “This is Nona.” That smoky voice, liquid with sex.

  Danny kissed the phone.

  “Hello?”

  More slow kissy noises.

  “Who is this?”

  He pitched his voice low, put on a bad Lugosi accent. “I want to suck your blood.”

  “Okay, whoever you are, I don’t like practical jokes so you either identify yourself or I’m hanging up.”

  “You’re lying in bed, naked, fingering your lovely pussy, moonlight catching that tiny rose tattoo on your left thigh, making it glow red and green.”

  “You know about that?”

  “I’m at your window, flapping my black wings. Then I become night fog and seep through the screen, cover you in dark mist, all of me inside your moist pocket of fuck, and then out into human form.”

  “Izzat right? And just what do you look like?”

  “Your heart’s desire. What are you wearing?”

  “Pair of shorts, tank top, a smile.”

  “Undo the shorts, reach inside them, touch yourself.”

  “You want me to unzip my—”

  “Yes, hold the phone down there as you do it.”

  “Sure, what the hell.” He heard her go away, heard the unzipping in three quick tugs, then she was back. “I got ’em open, big boy, and my fingers are on the button. Your move.”

  “Good. Very good. Now close your eyes and think of your fingers as mine. You see me above you in the light of the moon. My fingers are working you, my eyes are on you and loving you. I smile and you see two sharp points in my mouth. You feel how warm I am on you?”

  “Yes. Yes I do.” It sounded like she was having a problem breathing. “Ooh baby, keep doing that.”

  “Now I cover you, warm as a comforter and cool as the edge of an ice cube lazing over your skin. My mouth is at your throat, my hot flesh slides inside you.”

  “Yes, I can feel you.”

  “I puncture you, two tiny bites like twin mosquitoes only it feels like trickles of bliss, right straight from heaven, and they do amazing things to your body.” Danny could see her at the bedroom phone. He wanted to be with her, wanted to catch her at her most vulnerable and open her up. They’d shared things, secret things, her playing at domination, him begging like a slave until she gave up her prize to him and he humped her like she was a divine slot machine guaranteed to pay off in salvation as soon as he shot his cache of coins into her. But things weren’t like that any more. He had other things he wanted out of Nona now, and he was going to get them, yes, him and Wolf would nail the bitch together, partners in fuck. “Can you feel my fangs at your neck? Do they make you hot?”

  “Mmmm, yes. I . . . I . . . oh!” And then she was off and away, moaning into his ear, saying Oh fuck and Oh Christ and Yes, and he pretended he was coming too, even dropping out of Dracula but not out of the deep tone just in case; he’d save the real thing for later. He rode with her, down into normal breathing.

  She laughed openly. “Come on now, who the fuck are you, lover baby?”

  “A voice from the past.” Back to Lugosi.

  “Come on, can’t you do better than that?”

  “Sorry.”

  “Well listen, why don’t you come over right now, let me fuck you for real. Guy makes me come like that, I want to eat him nice and deep like a fucking sword swallower.”

  “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “Hard to get, huh? All right, have it your way.”

  I intend to, Nona dear, don’t fret. “Goodbye, lovely lady.”

  “So long. Keep in touch.”

  Danny hung up, almost able to smell the dark steamy after-sex rising off Nona’s flesh.

  He felt not the slightest bit of fatigue. ‘Course not, dummy, you’ve been asleep for nearly a year. Time to be on the move, just in case that cop ran a check on him or talked to a neighbor about the Bensons, and discovered they had no son.

  Time to pay that visit to Nona she wanted so bad, do her like she needed doing; then on to Karin. The kitchen drawers yielded twine and tape. Then he went upstairs to rummage through Clarence’s closet for some thinwear from his younger days. Found suitable togs tucked in the back, and an extra pair of socks he shoved in his pants pocket—thin and nylonish in a damned unappealing pattern of brown and red diamonds, but they’d do the trick. The rest of what he needed would be in Jimmy’s garage.

  He found Clarence’s car keys, hustled Wolf into the back seat of the Impala, and hit the road not ten minutes after sending Nona over the edge. Electricity coursed in his veins. He’d never felt more alive, more juiced, not since the first time he’d been born.


  SEVEN

  NEIGHBORLINESS

  Karin cradled the phone. Odd. She’d gotten up the courage to talk to Frank, been halfway to his study, then the phone had rung. A weird silence. You wouldn’t think silence could take on a character all its own, but it had. Or maybe it was just her own mood reflecting off the mute stranger on the other end, a mood that combined her upset over Jimmy Gallagher’s outrageous attack on her, with the anxiety she felt about talking to Frank.

  No matter. She shook it off, found that core inside that said “I won’t let Jimmy do that again, next time I’ll stand up to that bastard,” used it to strengthen the other voice, the one goading “It’s time to talk to Frank, time to face up to what our marriage has become.”

  Her knock was tentative, then more firm. Hearing him acknowledge it, she opened the door and poked her head in. He was seated at the PC in his shorts and a polo shirt, no socks or shoes, legs wrapped under him on the brown swivel chair. His look was enigmatic. A mild annoyance at being interrupted. The confused look of a thinker uncurling out of concentration. Mostly an anxiety that mirrored hers.

  “We need to talk,” she said, sounding more decisive that she felt inside.

  “All right,” he said. “Let me save this file.” He hit a function key. The disc drive made its squirrelly sound. A few keystrokes and he turned the PC off.

  He followed her in silence, down the hall to the TV room, where the L’d couch waited. It was their place for serious talk. They’d used it before, mostly in the early days when the trial’s aftershock had put a strain on them, one they’d been strong enough to overcome. Karin took her place and watched Frank settle into his. The spill of the hall light sufficed. Lovely plant smell hung everywhere, the spikes and blooms of shadowed vegetation. She smiled awkwardly and he glanced down.

  “Frank, it’s just not working.”

  He didn’t look at her. A hand went to his face, then back down to his lap. “Yes, I know.”