Ben Soul

by Richard George

it with the help of a mouthful of water.

  “Why are you in Las Tumbas?” Vanna asked. “I’d have thought you’d have stayed in the City.”

  “Las Tumbas is quieter, more like home,” Idabet said. “What about dessert?”

  “The pecan pie here is very good,” Vanna said. It was also the cheapest dessert on the menu.

  “Can’t do nuts,” Idabet said. “The Chocolate Decadence for me. You eat the pie, if you want it.”

  “I’m skipping dessert,” Vanna said.

  “Watch me enjoy, then, Dearie,” Idabet said as the waitress brought her a plate of chocolate cake, liberally frosted with chocolate icing, and accompanied with a large scoop of chocolate ice cream floating in a pool of chocolate syrup and decorated with white chocolate sprinkles. Idabet fell upon the dessert like starving hordes fall on piled rice in some third world famine, and despite having just eaten a huge meal, she demolished the heap of chocolate in short order. At the end she used her finger to wipe up the last of the syrup. Vanna’s face screamed her disgust. Idabet looked at her, and grinned.

  “Let’s go home, now, Dearie,” she said. “You pay the check, and we’ll go.” Vanna paid, carefully neglecting to leave any gratuity. Idabet linked her arm through Vanna’s as they left. Vanna tried to pull free, but Idabet’s grip was iron. Along the way Idabet chattered nonsense about the weather, flowers along the walk, the misdeeds of the Las Tumbas police, and the outrageous price of spinach (this prompted by a torn newspaper ad for that vegetable).

  At the rooming house, Vanna finally disengaged her arm from Idabet’s grip and started to go up to her room.

  “Now, Dearie, the night’s young. You’re coming in for a little chat.”

  “I’m very weary,” Vanna began.

  “None of that. You spend too much time alone, that you do. You’re coming in for a nightcap.” Idabet took Vanna’s hand, and almost literally dragged the villainess into her apartment. It was a bed-sitter arranged just like Vanna’s place. Idabet had rather more clutter in her apartment. Vanna collected little in her life but grudges. Idabet collected stuffed animals, small figurines, and they collected dust. Every surface in Idabet’s place had a crowded array of porcelain and plush pigs, cats, dogs, birds, dragons, and sheep. Idabet dragged Vanna past this wealth of knickknacks into the kitchen. She sat Vanna down, took two cups from the cupboard, rinsed them under the tap, and turned the water to hot and let it run.

  Into each of the cups Idabet put a spoon of powdered coffee, and then added two-thirds cup warm tap water. Then she stirred in a heaping spoon of sugar and a shot of vodka. She turned then, and presented the result to Vanna with a flourish.

  Vanna gagged at the thought of this cocktail, but she forced it to her lips and sipped. It wasn’t quite as vile as its appearance promised, but it was not gourmet coffee. Vanna did learn where Idabet kept her cash. Idabet had taken the large bankroll wrapped in a plastic sack from her sugar canister in order to get at the sugar. Vanna began considering how to get the money from Idabet’s canister into her own pocket. It was a sizeable roll, and, even if mostly ones, would nicely augment Vanna’s cosmetic surgery fund.

  When she had finished her vodka coffee, Vanna pleaded her need for rest, and Idabet at last let her go, promising to see her in the morning. Frantically, Vanna agreed, just to get away to her own apartment. Once there she locked the door, let down her Murphy bed, and huddled under the covers. She put her mind to work on Idabet removal. Nothing came to her. She fell into an uneasy sleep, where a leering Dickon/Idabet clone pursued her through strange and dark alleyways.

  Vanna woke to morning light as uneasy and queasy as a partially cooked egg. The light seemed to slither and dribble over the room, and the sun through the window glared angry and yellow-red. Someone was knocking on Vanna’s door. Vanna groaned, and got up. She struggled into a robe (another bit of thrift shop couture) she took from her closet and answered the door. As she had feared, it was Idabet who waited on the other side.

  “Good morning, Dearie,” Idabet said. She wrapped her arms around Vanna and gave her a big wet kiss right on the forehead. Vanna shuddered. “I thought we’d go to the park, today,” Idabet said cheerily. Vanna was about to remonstrate, when she remembered the railroad ran alongside the local park. An idea tickled her brain. A picture came to Vanna, of Idabet tied to the tracks like Pauline in an old Perils of Pauline serial. Swift pictures of Idabet tied down before an approaching saw blade and Idabet falling off a steep cliff chased each other through Vanna’s mind. Idabet, she thought, today is a good day for you to die.

  Under Idabet’s command, Vanna dressed in casual clothing, grabbed a light jacket, and walked to the park with the fungal-fumed woman. Idabet chattered glibly about birds, clouds, grass, the high cost of coffee, and kittens as they went. At the park she insisted Vanna push her in the swings, even though these playthings were supposedly restricted to use by children. Idabet’s wide hips did get stuck, and Vanna briefly imagined twisting the swings until the chain choked her nemesis.

  They went on, Idabet flitting from tree to tree in blithe abandon, Vanna trudging after her. Several children watched them in awe as Idabet, fluttering a scarf she had taken from her brassiere, whooped and sang as though she were five, not five and fifty. At last, Idabet collapsed on a park bench and patted the seat beside her to bid Vanna sit down.

  “We’ll rest here for a while, Dearie,” Idabet said. “Then we’ll go get a little lunch someplace, and finish it off with ice cream.”

  “Yes,” Vanna said, seething inwardly. Idabet flung her head back to stare at the clouds, her scarf carelessly draped across her lap. Gradually, her breathing slowed, her head came up, and dropped forward, as she drifted into sleep. In a little while she snored raucously. Vanna stood very carefully. She wished for a wire, and looked about her for something. She took the scarf, rolled it, wound it around Idabet’s neck, pulled it tight, and tied the ends together. She took a stick she found on the ground, put it through the tied scarf, and began twisting. She twisted and twisted, hoping the scarf would hold, while Idabet thrashed, frantically tearing at the scarf around her neck. Eventually, Idabet was still. She slumped over. Vanna kept twisting the scarf for good measure, until she was sure Idabet was dead.

  When she was sure the woman had died, she untwisted the scarf, threw the stick under some bushes, unwrapped the scarf from Idabet’s neck and tucked it into Idabet’s purse. She removed the small amount of cash from Idabet’s purse and took the key to Idabet’s apartment. Then she went back to the rooming house, let herself into Idabet’s apartment, took the bank roll from the sugar canister, and checked the other canisters for money, as well. The sugar roll was the largest, but the flour and salt had bills, as well, though the corn meal had none. Vanna wiped the canisters clean of her finger prints, dropped the key on the bureau, and let herself out. Then she went to work.

  Oh, Doctor, Doctor!

  When she returned from cleaning offices, Vanna counted the money she had stolen from Idabet’s canisters. It totaled over twenty-one thousand dollars, mostly in large bills, an amazing sum for an almost-bag lady to have collected. Vanna wondered where Idabet had got it, and regretted she hadn’t known about the amount so she could have wrung the source from the brown-clad woman before she killed her. Vanna might have tapped the source, too.

  Newly enriched, Vanna began shopping for a cosmetic surgeon. She researched the available choices for over two weeks before she discovered Dr. Porter House. He was not as costly as most others of his profession. Drink and, some claimed, the devil, had unsteadied his hand. Vanna interviewed him, and found him steady enough. The man’s black eyes were filmed with pain, as though a deep sorrow ate at his soul. His long, thin face, with its pointed chin, bore deep grooves of life’s travails, and even when he smiled the sorrow danced around his lips in a funereal fandango. A great mane of white hair crowned his face and covered his ears. He was not a grea
t advertisement for his own skills.

  His baritone voice dispelled all fears of his incompetence. Rich as olive oil, decked with colorful overtones like stained glass, Dr. House could have graced a pulpit or fronted a mortuary with dignity and gravity. His long, nervous fingers shaped figures in the air as he described enhancements he could make to Vanna’s frame and face. As, from time to time, the mongoose dances to charm the cobra, so Dr. House wove a tale of remade beauty to enchant the viperous Vanna. He named a figure triple what Vanna had on hand, and she returned to herself. She determined there would be a way to rid herself of Dr. House when his work was done.

  “I don’t have money enough for what you’ve described,” Vanna said. “How much just to augment my breasts, give me pouting lips, and round out my cheeks a little?”

  “Well,” Dr. House said, poising his fingers over his calculator’s keypad like vultures about to swoop on road kill, “let’s see.” His fingers danced frenziedly over the calculator keys and pressed the total button. “Thirty thousand,” he said, “give or take a little.”

  “I’ll have to pay in installments,” Vanna said. “How much down?”

  “A third, say ten thousand.”

  Vanna sighed heavily.