Slice dje-5

by Rex Miller

  “Modeling?” She looked over at him like she'd never heard the word before in her life.

  “Yeah. You know. Posing for pictures in magazines. Being photographed. High fashion work. Swimsuits. That sort of thing."

  “Naaaaw.” She laughed a little and looked to see if he were putting her on.

  “Boy,” he said, his face deadly serious, “what a waste. You know, that's what I do."

  “Photograph models?"

  “Well, no, I don't photograph ‘em. Oh, sure, the story-boards and all I do, but I'm a concept producer, and I work with beautiful models all the time. God. You put ‘em all to shame. You're a knockout if you don't mind me saying so.” His eyes remained straight on the road, so sincere you'd think he were sitting next to Brooke Shields now. He began some double-talk gobbledygook about concept production for the “big slicks.” And she was beaming from the compliments.

  “You know,” she said, “you might laugh at me but I've been thinking about trying some high fashion modeling."

  He couldn't believe the nitwit said it—TRYING SOME HIGH FASHION MODELING. What an idiot. He smiled and shook his head in amazement. “I just can't believe nobody's ever asked you. Wow! Listen, I don't know if you'd have any interest, but I'm on my way back out to the Coast to do a big spread for a major advertiser and I need a girl who looks just tike you. But she has to be unspoiled-looking, pure, beautiful—like YOU. I need somebody new. A new face.” He was really getting into it now. Riffing. The rumbling basso profundo lapping at the listener's brain, never letting up, the stream of vocalese scatting away at reason, the rising tide drowning them in compliments, favors, begging, imploring, dangling lost opportunities and rich promises in front of them, giving their own language back to them slightly altered, the sea of words taking the victim under. “I need ... I can't use those skuzzes out there. I have to find a new girl."

  “Hmmm,” she hummed in agreement, hanging on his words.

  “Would you have any interest at all in going with me? I would pay all your expenses, and when we got to California you'd be getting a big cash fee for just a few hours’ work. How does that sound?"

  “God! Yeah. I mean it sounds real good. What would I have to do?” Her face was wary.

  “That's the beautiful part.” He beamed his biggest smile yet. “Absolutely nothing!” And her smile crinkled the corners of her eyes and he read her for an easy yes.

  “When would I have to go?"

  “Well, see, that's the thing.” He was very earnest now, hurried, intense with the excitement and challenge and just that soupçon of threat mixed into it, like you know—"if we don't go right away you'll miss out on the job, and it's so perfect for you, and you're so beautiful and I can't believe my luck.” And on and on until she fancies herself a free spirit and she goes, “Well. Shit. Why not? I'll go home and tell Mom,” and what a crazy, spur-of-the-moment chick I am, and let's do it. Devil-may-care me, I'm always ready to try anything once, ha ha.

  But then Chaingang tells her, “I've got even a better idea than that,” and he begins spinning this bullshit about how they can surprise her, and the best way to handle things of this nature based on his past experiences, and how he is going to personally buy her AN ALL-NEW WARDROBE so that she doesn't even have to stop to pack, not even pack a toothbrush, and here's a dime to call Mom and stuff soon as we stop for clothing, and he hands her a ten and peels it off a role of bills the size of a grenade that he can barely jam back in his pocket, or so it appears.

  And even as she starts to protest, his foot has gently dropped just a little on the pedal and they are moving toward the city limits even as he speaks, that overflow of wordplay still inundating her with the dream of sunny Cal and the beach and the tan—my God how great she'd look with a deep tan.

  “Yeah. I been wanting a tanning bed, but—"

  “Why would you want a tanning bed when you can lay out in your new string bikini on the golden sandy beach—” But he misread her and she says, “Oh, I hate the hot beach,” and before the word “hot” has had time to resonate in his computer he has rephrased the whole thing and they are talking about how he will buy her the finest tanning bed on the market, and which kind of tanning bed is the safest, and he pours out the pitcher full of liquid charm and she settles back in the seat of the big stolen car, thrilled to her core that this is happening and beginning to consider the possibilities of this ego-stroking act of kind fate, and he intrudes upon her daydreaming fantasy as he says, “Hey. Listen. I don't even think we introduced ourselves. I'm Daniel. What's your name."

  “Oh, yeah. Hi. Sissy Selkirk."

  “Sissy?"

  “Yeah,” she said apologetically, “I way—” but he quickly stopped her before she could begin some interminable tale about her goony name.

  “Sissy is real different. Pretty. I like it. Like Sissy Spacek."

  “Yeah, I spell it same as her."

  “You LOOK a little like her too,” he lied. She was very ordinary-looking. Far from pretty but not homely. Her face was attractive in profile, but when she turned, the jawline was exaggerated like Sub-Mariner's in the old comic books, and she was so thin as to be almost without a figure.

  “Sometime when I get two thousand dollars I'm goin’ to get my boobs done,” she said.

  “Pardon me?” He had no idea what she'd said.

  “You know.” She touched her chest. “I think it would give me more confidence to model and that. Kevin said I should get boobs exactly like Morgan Fairchild's.” She showed with her hands approximately where Morgan Fairchild's breasts would be if they were on her chest. For the first time Chaingang had just a little tremor of nagging regret. She was almost too stupid. He wondered how long he'd be able to tolerate her as a cover before he let the tide of rage wash over him and he lashed out and killed her.

  “Morgan Fairchild's,” he mused aloud, having no idea who that was. “Well, we'll have that two thousand for you soon enough. What are you going to charge for modeling—do you know yet?” Anything to keep talking.

  She didn't know what to say. He could sense he'd erred again, asking her a question that required some degree of intellect to respond to. He quickly said, “You'll have to set a fee. A bare minimum. Get it?” He laughed inanely. “A BARE minimum—for when you do bikini modeling."

  “Yeah!” She laughed with him. He seemed like an okay dude. She thought for a moment and asked carefully, “How much do you pay?"

  “Thousands,” he said expansively, nodding to show her he was serious, “so the bare minimum is even good.” They laughed again. Rarely heard, his natural laugh was a weird kind of barking noise. He knew it frightened the hell out of people, so he had learned to fake a passable human laugh, a cross between laughter and the sound of an outboard motor starting.

  And there they were, Daniel Bunkowski and Sissy Selkirk, two strangers in the warm afternoon, getting to know all about each other in the front seat of a stolen car rolling along toward the sunset across the distant horizon.

  Fifteen minutes before, Sissy had been on her way to pick up something she'd put on layaway downtown, just walking down Randolph minding her business. And now she was sitting next to a perfect stranger, a 460-pound lunatic killer, on her way to God knows where in California to model for thousands of dollars an hour. Life can sure play some big surprises on you, she thought, her heart beating rapidly with the unbelievable rush of this exciting offer.

  Soon Daniel would begin his tale of how they'd need to keep their expenses as low as possible to get her a wardrobe or whatever, and would she mind terribly if they'd SHARE a motel room? And that would be just the beginning.

  But the suggestion, while not even a hair off-key in tone, jars some vestige of caution in the girl and she begins a big number about how she just can't leave without calling home.

  “I gotta tell Mom. God, she'd shit if I, you know, would just leave ‘n that—not say anything. GOD! ‘N you know, I gotta get some things, ‘n I gotta—” And he smiles, nodding with her a
s he decides how he'll handle it when Mom draws the line. He has a fluid game plan. He will go with the flow as always. Ride with the tide. Boogie with the oogie. What a MORON. I gotta feed my goldfish, wipe my ass ... He has tuned her out as he searches for a pay phone at sidewalk level. One where he can closely monitor the girl's side of the conversation.

  He is parked. She is depositing money. He catches fragments of a no and he begins to formulate his next move until he hears, “HEY WELL YOU KNOW JUST FUCK IT THEN IF THAT'S THE WAY YOU FEEL FUCK IT!” The girl slamming down the receiver, Daniel fighting to look sincerely worried as she hurls herself back in the car. “You know, like you said, I just won't bother with any luggage ‘n that. I mean, we can PICK UP whatever I need. Right?"

  He can't believe it himself. “Right, sure. Absolutely.” He starts back into traffic as she begins recounting the lifelong battle of wits between mother and daughter. Bunkowski scores again. Too facile, perhaps? Yes, for the average person, maybe. But he does not have Daniel's inner compass which points toward the vulnerable heartbeat. Somewhere you have your Sissy Selkirk. The thing is, you and Sissy may never meet. If you DO find her, will you be able to spot her in a crowd? Chaingang can always find them. It is part of his nature.

  He looked over at the girl as if he'd homed in on that excited throbbing in the childlike bosom smiling his most disarming and trustworthy smile, the gruesome, bandaged face turned as far away as possible, the right side crinkled in warmth and good humor as he eyed her flat chest, smiling, beaming at her wonderfulness, and when she paused for a gasp of air, saying, “Morgan Fairchild,” nodding slowly, knowingly as he looked at her. “Yes. I think so. Definitely.” And that was just the incentive to set her back on course, and she started off on a long, aimless, circling butterfly flight of airheaded jabber as he let himself tune out with a contented smile.

  WINDER

  “Oh, man, shit, Bo, I done drew DOWN on ‘im.” They had ditched the Crown Vic. “God DAMN that's a good fuckin’ feelin—SHIIIIT.” John Monroe was toked and stoked. He started counting again, one hunnert, two hunnert, three hunnert, damn ... He lost track ag'in. “Oh, man. I mean I was cocked ‘n rocked, weren't I?"

  “Uh huh."

  “Bo, that sucker come out from behin’ that post ‘n shit ‘n just pop outta there like a rabbit tree'd outta a damn cornfield, POW—pops up and goes, Awright, Louie, drop the gat, er, some ole-timey shit an’ I just go cooler'n a damn snake I go PPPKKKKKSSSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHHEEEEEEEWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW! ‘n blast that fucker onta his shitty ass.” He laughed like it was the funniest thing he'd ever seen. A man dying. “Up jumps the devil and PPPPKKKSSSSSSSHHHHHEEEW WW! One rentacop"—he made the finger scoreboard gesture—"ten points! Hot dawgies."

  He started to count again, this time out loud, “Twenty, forty, forty-five, ninety-five, and, uh, ninety-five and twenty well call ‘er a hunnert and twenty, hunnert and forty, hunnert forty-five, two hunnert and forty-five, two hunnert and sixty-five—"

  “John.” Patient. Calm. His sweet, syrupy put-on voice.

  “Ya sure kin shoot, John. I mean f'r some dum-fuck bum-fuck ya’ kin drill, boy."

  “Ain't that the fuckin’ truth, Bo. Two hunnert and eighty-five. Three hunnert and eighty-five, uh, four hunnert and forty-five—"

  “Real fine on the draw there. Ya done real good with that there pipe."

  “Yeah.” He didn't like Wendell's tone. He kept counting in silence, six hunnert ... seven ... eight. Another thousand stack. That was ... what? He'd already lost count. Fifteen? Seventeen. Most he'd ever seen.

  “Hey, Bo. Weuns got us about eighteen, nineteen thousand dollars here. Motherfucker! ‘Atsa most gaw-damned money ah'v ever seen in mah fuckin’ LIFE. Maybe nineteen, twenty thousand dollars.” It was getting more each time he said it.

  “Uh huh. Thing is, f'r somebody with a fast pipe like youuns got that there was some serious BAD fuckin’ reflexes at the door. Ya know that, doncha, boy? Ya know ya fucked up back air—now say it, eh?"

  “Huh?” He didn't like the tone at all.

  “Yeah. Ya fucked up real purty, John."

  “I don't know whatcha mean, Bo. I didn't do nothin’ wro—"

  “'N another thang take ‘n spit out that there fuckin’ foam rubber in y'r cheeks, ah cain't understan'a fuckin’ word—okay?"

  “Yeah.” He spat out the window. One of the sides he had to dislodge with a finger. “'N we can shave these mustaches off too like ya said. They gonna be lookin’ f'r two theefs with them caps ‘n pussy ticklers and big ole chipmunk cheeks."

  “Ya fucked us out of about twenty thousand back air."

  “Huh?"

  “Ass right."

  “No way, man.” He didn't have to take that shit. He'd gone and saved their shitty butts back there.

  “Twenty thousand. My half is ten. So you owe me ten outta youuns share.” He was deadly serious.

  “Shit. You was JOKIN’ with me.” He got it now. He thought Wendell had been serious. “You got some sense of humor, man. Shit chew had me a-goin'. Hell's bells."

  “Uh huh."

  ONE MILE FROM I-57

  He drove through the congested traffic with a tenth of his mind, not even that, a fraction of his brain channeled on what he was seeing with his eyes and the rest of him out on some faraway level.

  He noise in the car was sufficiently disconcerting that it might have disturbed some lesser being. The radio was blasting a big-beat tune straight from the heart of old time rock-'n-roll—thumping, toe-tapping, undeniable kind of music—and it was the sort of non-formula rock that came from the most real point on the musical compass forcing the listener to either love it or leave it. You had to get with it or get away from it. You couldn't be indifferent. Chaingang was the exception. It didn't exist for him.

  The girl on the seat beside him was running her mouth as she always did, and with perhaps the bottom hundredth of his awareness he was able to follow some vague semblance of her meandering tale of woe about a jealous suitor who had followed her everywhere, and he would hear snatches of her voice pop in and out of his consciousness.

  “...him if he kept following me around I'd have to get the law on him and he said okay, but then when I went to...” And getting enough of a sense of it that he knew it was of no danger to him, nothing he had to correct or stifle or steer back on track, and though for many it would have been disconcerting or annoying to the point of distraction, to him it was less than the buzzing of a fly. He found her voice somewhat pleasant.

  She spoke in a kind of babyish, controlled, soft-spoken way that made a person want to lean forward and listen until he realized she wasn't saying anything of importance.

  “...and she said he'd been over at her house parked outside waiting for me for about two hours and so I said to her that if he ever—” It was sort of like chewing gum with words, a reflexive thing some people have in the proximity of others; a need to constantly fill anything resembling quiet with noise. The sportscaster syndrome: the need to keep talking.

  Daniel found the girl's voice bearable. He liked the fact that it was soft and always respectful and low in volume so that his powers of concentration could easily tune it out. In a way he supposed that it was better she had plenty to say to him, because they would be together a lot and he had absolutely nothing to say to her. Nothing. They had a grand total of zero in common. He might have come down from Mars for all he was able to relate to her world of mundane troubles and nothingness.

  “...when they came and they just warned him and a’ course he told them he hadn't been following me, which was nothing but a lot of lies, and so me next time he called me up I just said...” A lulling kind of not unpleasant, soft, background noise to let him know she was still alive and functioning beside him.

  He could not look at the traffic without being amazed by it. It fascinated him, so alien the sight of masses of human beings was to his nature. What were they all thinking? Where were they all headed? A dirty, long-unwashed, grimy gray used car of some kin
d swerved into the lane immediately in front of him. Daddy and Mommy, with a kid between them. Three more in the back seat and hanging out the windows waving and laughing and screaming maniacally like a family of chimps. God, how he detested the sight of them. A family “having fun.” It pleased him greatly to think in that instant how close they all were to death. They were a whim away from the Reaper.

  How easy it would be for him to take them out. He was so experienced at it, he knew all the tricks of the trade, the techniques to put people at his mercy to lead them by the nose into the dark places where they could cry for help at the top of their lungs to no avail, where no prying eyes could see the horrors they would be subjected to in their closing minutes—or hours, if he was lucky.

  His experience at this was unparalleled. He knew just in that second, all the dangers, all the possible permutations, the accidentals, serendipitous happenstances, fortuitous lucky breaks that might save them. He knew by instinct and lust and long, long experience how to make that quick, instant assessment of their level of threat to him.

  And in that fleeting second, as he looked at the screaming monkees and the weary Ma and Pa with their brood in the old car, even a lawn-mower handle or something protruding from the filthy trunk lid which was tied down and flopping back and forth as the old car bounced along, in a big hurry to what? Go mow their lawn? They fascinated him. What could they be thinking, these monkees.

  How easy it would be for him to tap their bumper, and the twine would break and the lawn mower would do whatever it would do and the trunk lid would pop up and the man would panic and brake and pull over and Chain would be on top of them in a heartbeat. And instinctively his mind planned a scheme whereby he could insert himself into their peaceful, nothing, alien lives. Saw their monkee reveries apart with a nasty, serrated steel edge. Hammer into their plans and boring lives of predictability with a fury that would leave them bloodied and screaming from pain and terror. Rip apart their lawn-mower lives of weed-eating, water-sliding, tractor-pulling ignorance and blissful stupor. Make them beg for merciful death to take them under. And the heat of the fantasy kindled an old familiar hunger.