One Night Stands; Lost weekends

by Lawrence Block

  “Happy?” he said. “What the hell are you happy about? We’re a couple of small-time mugs living in a dump. What’s to be happy about?”

  I tried to tell him how nice it was, going to shows and just the two of us living together, but I don’t talk too good.

  “You dope,” he said. “You’d be happy being a punk forever. That’s not for me, Dope.”

  I couldn’t see what he was getting at so I went out to a show. It was this picture where Jimmy Cagney wants to be the top man in the rackets so his mother will be proud of him and he winds up getting blown up in a factory. It was a damn good picture, except for the ending.

  When I got back to the room Charlie was sitting on the bed writing something down. I got excited, ’cause I knew he was making notes for the next job. He always wrote everything out in detail, and burned his notes in the wastebasket. He didn’t miss a trick.

  I sat down next to him and gave him a smile. “What’s new, Brain?” He didn’t answer until he finished what he was writing, and then he smiled back at me. “A big one,” he said. “No more candy store junk.”

  I didn’t answer and he went on to explain it. I didn’t get it all because I’m not too bright when it comes to that kind of thing, but there was some sort of office he knew about where they had the payroll set up at night and if we went in and robbed it we could get away with the whole payroll. He asked me didn’t it beat knocking over candy stores and I told him it sure did. A guy like me never would have figured out something like that, but Charlie was sharp as a tack.

  We pulled the job the next night. It was just a few blocks away from where we lived, and the place was all locked up. Charlie said there was a watchman on duty in the back, where the money was. Then he took a little hunk of metal and got the door open. I don’t know where he learned how to do that, I really don’t.

  I started to walk right in but Charlie made me slow down. He whispered that the old guy could give an alarm unless we got him by surprise. We walked in on tiptoe, and we were practically on top of him before he looked up, and Charlie had the fake gun pointed right at him. I thought he’d have a heart attack then and there.

  “Open the safe,” Charlie said.

  The old guy just stared for a minute, and then he stuck out his chin. “You boys better go home,” he said. “I’ll give you ten seconds before I call the cops.”

  Charlie knew how to put the screws on. He didn’t say a word, but just kept standing there with the gun pointing right at the guy’s head. It was so real that I almost started thinking it wasn’t a phony gun with blank bullets.

  Then the guy jumped. He fell right down off the chair, and Charlie yelled, “Get him, you goddamn dope!”

  I went for him then, but he hit the alarm button before I could get him and the bells started ringing like mad. I was boiling then. I yanked him up off the floor and belted him all the way across the room, and his head hit the wall like Ted Williams hits a baseball.

  I started across the room after him, I was so mad. But Charlie stopped me and we ran out. There were people all around, but they didn’t know what was happening and we managed to get back to the room.

  Charlie wouldn’t even talk to me. He sat on the bed listening to the radio, and when the news came that the guy had died of a broken skull he looked at me like I was the stupidest guy in the world. Let me tell you, I felt horrible. It was just like me to swing too hard.

  I thought we could still get away, but Charlie straightened me out. He told me how they saw us and they’d get us sooner or later. And he figured out the only way we could get out of it.

  We wiped off his gun and got my fingerprints on it, and then we went to the police station. I told them the story just like Charlie told me to, about how I was the older brother and I was bigger than Charlie and made him come along and commit crimes, and how I beat up the guy and killed him. And then at the trial some doctor told how I was a dope and hardly knew what I was doing, and they shouldn’t blame me for it. Charlie had to go to jail, but he got out in a year. Because I was such a dope they only gave me ten years for manslaughter.

  It’s not bad here, either. There are lots of nice guys to talk to, and the food’s okay. And the best part of it is that Charlie’s out now, and he comes to visit me once a month. He sends me money for cigarettes and everything, which is damn nice of him.

  I’m just a dope, but I’m lucky. Most guys wouldn’t pay any attention to me, especially if they were real smart. But Charlie comes every month, and he says, “Hi, Muscle,” and I say, “Hiya, Brain.”

  We’re still buddies, even after what I did.

  He’s a wonderful brother, let me tell you.

  A FIRE AT NIGHT

  HE GAZED SILENTLY INTO THE FLAME. The old tenement was burning, and the smoke was rising upward to merge against the blackness of the sky. There were neither stars nor moon in the sky, and the streetlights in the neighborhood were dim and spaced far apart. Nothing detracted from the brilliance of the fire. It stood out against the night like a diamond in a pot of bubbling tar. It was a beautiful fire.

  He looked around and smiled. The crowd was growing larger, as everyone in the area thronged together to watch the building burn. They like it, he thought. Everyone likes a fire. They receive pleasure from staring into the flames, watching them dance on the tenement roof. But their pleasure could never match his, for it was his fire. It was the most beautiful fire he had ever set.

  His mind filled with the memory of it. It had been planned to perfection. When the sun dropped behind the tall buildings and the sky grew dark, he had placed the can of kerosene in his car with the rags—plain, nondescript rags that could never be traced to him. And then he had driven to the old tenement. The lock on the cellar door was no problem, and there was no one around to get in the way. The rags were placed, the kerosene was spread, the match was struck, and he was on his way. In seconds the flames were licking at the ancient walls and racing up the staircases.

  The fire had come a long way now. It looked as though the building had a good chance of caving in before the blaze was extinguished. He hoped vaguely that the building would fall. He wanted his fire to win.

  He glanced around again, and was amazed at the size of the crowd. All of them pressed close, watching his fire. He wanted to call to them. He wanted to scream out that it was his fire, that he and he alone had created it. With effort he held himself back. If he cried out it would be the end of it. They would take him away and he would never set another fire.

  Two of the firemen scurried to the tenement with a ladder. He squinted at them, and recognized them—Joe Dakin and Roger Haig. He wanted to call hello to them, but they were too far away to hear him. He didn’t know them well, but he felt as though he did. He saw them quite often.

  He watched Joe and Roger set the ladder against the side of the building. Perhaps there was someone trapped inside. He remembered the other time when a small boy had failed to leave the building in time. He could still hear the screams—loud at first, then softer until they died out to silence. But this time he thought the building had been empty.

  The fire was beautiful! It was warm and soft as a woman. It sang with life and roared with joy. It seemed almost a person, with a mind and a will of its own.

  Joe Dakin started up the ladder. Then there must be someone in the building. Someone had not left in time and was trapped with the fire. That was a shame. If only there were a way for him to warn them! Perhaps next time he could give them a telephone call as soon as the blaze was set.

  Of course, there was even a beauty in trapping someone in the building. A human sacrifice to the fire, an offering to the goddess of Beauty. The pain, the loss of life was unfortunate, but the beauty was compensation. He wondered who might be caught inside.

  Joe Dakin was almost to the top of the ladder. He stopped at a window on the fifth floor and looked inside. Then he climbed through.

  Joe is brave, he thought. I hope he isn’t hurt. I hope he saves the person in the buildi
ng.

  He turned around. There was a little man next to him, a little man in shabby clothes with a sad expression on his face. He reached over and tapped the man on the shoulder.

  “Hey!” he said. “You know who’s in the building?”

  The little man nodded wordlessly.

  “Who is it?”

  “Mrs. Pelton,” said the little man. “Morris Pelton’s mother.”

  He had never heard of Morris Pelton. “Well, Joe’ll get her out. Joe’s a good fireman.”

  The little man shook his head. “Can’t get her out,” he said. “Can’t nobody get her out.”

  He felt irritated. Who was this little jerk to tell him? “What do you mean?” he said. “I tell you Joe’s a helluva fireman. He’ll take care of it.”

  The little man flashed him a superior look. “She’s fat,” he said. “She’s a real big woman. She must weigh two hundred pounds easy. This Joe’s just a little guy. How’s he gonna get her out? Huh?” The little man tossed his head triumphantly and turned away without an answer.

  Another sacrifice, he thought. Joe would be disappointed. He’d want to rescue the woman, but she would die in the fire.

  He looked at the window. Joe should come out soon. He couldn’t save Mrs. Pelton, and in a few seconds he would be coming down the ladder. And then the fire would burn and burn and burn, until the walls of the building crumbled and caved in, and the fire won the battle. The smoke would curl in ribbons from the ashes. It would be wonderful to watch.

  He looked up at the window suddenly. Something was wrong. Joe was there at last, but he had the woman with him. Was he out of his mind?

  The little man had not exaggerated. The woman was big, much larger than Joe. He could barely see Joe behind her, holding her in his arms. Joe couldn’t sling her into a fireman’s carry; she would have broken his back.

  He shuddered. Joe was going to try to carry her down the ladder, to cheat the fire of its victim. He held her as far from his body as he could and reached out a foot gingerly. His foot found the first rung and rested on it.

  He took his other foot from the windowsill and reached out for the next rung. He held tightly to the woman, who was screaming now. Her body shook with each scream, and rolls of fat bounced up and down.

  The damned fool, he thought. How could he expect to haul a fat slob like that down five flights on a ladder? He was a good fireman, but he didn’t have to act like a superman. And the fat bitch didn’t even know what was going on. She just kept screaming her head off. Joe was risking his neck for her, and she didn’t even appreciate it at all.

  He looked at Joe’s face as the fireman took another halting step. Joe didn’t look good. He had been inside the building too long. The smoke was bothering him.

  Joe took another step and tottered on the ladder. Drop her, he thought. You goddamned fool, let go of her!

  And then he did. The woman slipped suddenly from Joe’s grip, and plummeted downward to the sidewalk. Her scream rose higher and higher as she fell, and then stopped completely. She struck the pavement like a bug smacking against the windshield of a car.

  His whole being filled with relief. Thank God, he thought. It was too bad for the woman, but now Joe would reach the ground safely. But he noticed that Joe seemed to be in trouble. He was still swaying back and forth. He was coughing, too.

  And then, all at once, Joe fell. He left the ladder and began to drop to the earth. His body hovered in the air and floated down like a feather. Then he hit the ground and melted into the pavement.

  At first he could not believe it. Then he glared at the fire. Damn you, he thought. You weren’t satisfied with the old woman. You had to take a fireman too.

  It wasn’t right.

  The fire was evil. This time it had gone too far. Now it would have to suffer for it.

  And then he raised his hose and trained it on the burning hulk of the tenement, punishing the fire.

  FROZEN STIFF

  AT TEN MINUTES TO FIVE the Mexican kid finished sweeping the floor. He stood by the counter, leaning on his broom and looking at the big white-faced clock.

  “Go on home,” Brad told him. “Nobody’s going to want any lamb chops delivered anymore. You’re through, go get some rest.”

  The kid flashed teeth in a smile. He took off his apron and hung it on a peg, put on a poplin windbreaker.

  “Take it easy,” Brad said.

  “You stayin’ here?”

  “For a few minutes,” Brad said. “I got a few things to see to.” The kid walked to the door, then turned at the last moment. “You watch out for the freezer, Mr. Malden. You get in there, man, nobody can get you out.”

  “I’ll be careful.”

  “I’ll see you, Mr. Malden.”

  “Yeah,” Brad said. “Sure.”

  The kid walked out. Brad watched the door close after him, then walked behind the meat counter and leaned over it, his weight propped up on his elbows. He was a big man, heavy with muscle, broad-faced and barrel-chested. He was forty-six, and he looked years younger until you saw the furrowed forehead and the drawn, anxious lines at the corners of his mouth. Then he looked fifty.

  He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He picked a heavy cleaver from a hook behind him, lifted it high overhead, and brought it down upon a wooden chopping block. The blade sank four inches into the block.

  Strong, he thought. Like an ox.

  He left the cleaver in the block. The freezer was in the back, and he walked through a sawdust-covered hallway to it. He opened the door and looked inside. Slabs of beef hung from the ceiling. Other cuts and sections of meat were piled on the floor. There were cleavers and hooks on pegs in the walls. The room was very cold.

  He looked at the inside of the door. There was a safety latch there, installed so that the door could be opened from the inside if a person managed to lock himself in.

  Two days ago he had smashed the safety latch. He broke it neatly and deliberately with a single blow of the cleaver, and then he told the Mexican kid what had happened.

  “Watch yourself in the cold bin,” he had told the kid. “I busted the goddamn latch. That door shuts on you and you’re in trouble. The room’s soundproof. Nobody can hear you if you yell. So make damn sure the door’s open when you’re in there.”

  He told Vicki about it that same night. “I did a real smart thing today,” he said. “Broke the damn safety latch on the cold bin door.”

  “So what?” she said.

  “So I got to watch it,” he said. “The door shuts when I’m in there and there’s no way out. A guy could freeze to death.”

  “You should have it fixed.”

  “Well,” he had said, shrugging, “one of these days.”

  He stood looking into the cold bin for a few more moments now. Then he turned slowly and walked back to the front of the store. He closed the door, latched it. He turned off the lights. Then he went back to the cold bin.

  He opened the door. This time he walked inside, stopping the door with a small wooden wedge. The wedge left the door open an inch or so. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with icy air.

  He looked at his watch. Five-fifteen, it read. He took another breath and smiled slowly, gently, to himself.

  By eight or nine he would be dead.

  It started with a little pain in the chest. Just a twinge, really. It hurt him when he took a deep breath, and sometimes it made him cough. A little pain—you get to expect them now and then when you pass forty. The body starts to go to hell in one way or the other and you get a little pain from time to time.

  He didn’t go to the doctor. What the hell, a big guy like Brad Malden, he should go to the doctor like a kid every time he gets a little pain? He didn’t go to the doctor. Then the pain got worse, and he started getting other pains in his stomach and legs, and he had a six-letter idea what it was all about.

  He was right. By the time he went to a doctor, finally, it was inoperable. “You should have come in earlier,” the doct
or told him. “Cancer’s curable, you know. We could have taken out a lung—”

  Sure, he thought. And I could breath with my liver. Sure.

  “I want to get you to the hospital right away,” the doctor had said.

  And he asked, reasonably, “What the hell for?”

  “Radium treatments. Radical surgery. We can help you, make the pain easier, delay the progress of the disease—”

  Make me live longer, he had thought. Make it last longer, and hurt longer, and cost more.

  “Forget it,” he said.

  “Mr. Malden—”

  “Forget it. Forget I came to you, understand? I never came here, I never saw you, period. Got it?”

  The doctor did not like it that way. Brad didn’t care whether he liked it or not. He didn’t have to like it. It wasn’t his life.

  He took a deep breath again and the pain was like a knife in his chest. Like a cleaver. Not for me, he thought. No lying in bed for a year dying by inches. No wasting away from two hundred pounds to eighty pounds. No pain. No dribbling away the money on doctors and hospitals until he was gone and there was nothing left for Vicki but a pile of bills that the insurance would barely cover. Thanks, doc. But no thanks. Not for me.

  He looked again at his watch. Five-twenty. Go ahead, he told himself angrily. Get rid of the wedge, shut the door, lie down, and go to sleep. It was cold, and you closed your eyes and relaxed, and bit by bit you got numb all over. Go ahead, shut the door and die.

  But he left the wedge where it was. No rush, he thought. There was plenty of time for dying.

  He walked to the wall, leaned against it. This was the better way. In the morning they would find him frozen to death, and they would figure logically enough that the wedge had slipped and he had frozen to death. Vicki would cry over him and bury him, and the insurance policy would pay her a hundred thousand dollars. He had fifty thousand dollars of straight life insurance with a double indemnity clause for accidental death, and this could only be interpreted as an accident. With that kind of money Vicki could get a decent income for life. She was young and pretty, they didn’t have any kids, in a few years she could remarry and start anew.