Blackburn

by Bradley Denton

  “Look,” the naked man said. He was wringing out his briefs. “I never took nothing I never paid for.”

  Blackburn finished gathering the flowers and stood up. Dolores was sitting against the headboard now. She had pulled the sheet up to her throat.

  “Money’s so tight, Ed,” she said. “It doesn’t mean anything. I was just trying to make things easier.”

  “So tight,” Blackburn said. He turned back to the naked man. “See my boots, naked man?”

  The naked man had dropped his wet briefs and was starting to pull on his pants. “What about them?” he asked.

  “I think you bought them for me,” Blackburn said.

  The naked man had one hand on the waistband of his pants. He straightened a little, and the pants came up partway. He smiled.

  “Hope you like them,” he said.

  Blackburn nodded. Then he took a step and kicked. The pointed toe of his right cowboy boot caught the naked man under the balls and drove upward. The naked man’s back arched, and his mouth opened. Blackburn stepped away. The naked man crumpled. He hit the floor and lay curled in the water and broken glass. He made a gurgling noise.

  Blackburn returned to the head of the bed. He held the roses in a clump in his left hand. “I brought you some flowers,” he said again.

  Dolores said nothing. Part of the sheet was crammed into her mouth.

  “They’re sweetheart roses,” Blackburn said. “There aren’t many thorns. Here.” He selected a rose and held it out to her. The tight petals brushed her cheek.

  Dolores’s right hand came up from the sheet. She took the stem between her thumb and fingers.

  “Would you like to smell it?” Blackburn asked.

  Dolores nodded.

  “Put it up your nose,” Blackburn said.

  By the time he gave Dolores the last rose, the bedroom smelled like the flower shop. The naked man was throwing up. Dolores was convulsed in a fit of sneezing.

  Blackburn went to the closet and took down all of Dolores’s clothes. He threw them on top of the naked man, who was trying to crawl out of the room. The clothes slowed him down. Blackburn shut the door to stop him. Then he turned toward Dolores again.

  Dolores was on her knees on the bed. Her eyes were wet. “Eddie, I love you,” she said. “I really—” A sneeze cut off her last word.

  Blackburn wanted to kill her. The Python would be the best way. It was in the Rambler, wrapped in rags under the back seat. It would be an effort to go out and remove the seat, retrieve the pistol, and bring it back. But he could be fast. His life before Dolores had taught him to be fast. He wouldn’t even have to tie her up first. He could put one behind her ear before she could get away.

  Her sweet, perfect-for-tonguing ear.

  He wanted to kill her.

  He wanted to make love to her.

  He wanted to kill her.

  Dolores had betrayed him. She had treated him as one human being should never treat another. She had violated his rules in the most severe way possible. It was as simple as simple could be.

  One behind her ear.

  Blackburn started for the door. The pile of clothes with the naked man under it was in his way. He stopped. Then he turned back and crawled onto the bed. He crawled up until his nose was a millimeter from Dolores’s nose. Her eyes converged. She turned away. He gave her one kiss behind her ear.

  Then he dragged her to the closet and bound her ankles to the clothes rod with the belt from the leather jacket, which he didn’t think was borrowed after all. Her head just touched the floor. She began yelling for help, so he opened the box from J.C. Penney and took out the sweater. He used its belt to gag her, then wrapped the sweater around her head. He put his hands against the sweater and felt her breath. She would be all right. He straightened, stepped back, and closed the closet door. He would not be using the Python today.

  No matter what she had done, no matter what his rules, Dolores was his wife. And a good husband did not put a bullet into his wife’s brain. He had already done too much as it was. He was already too much like his father.

  Blackburn stuffed a few things into his duffel bag, then kicked the pile of clothes off the naked man and helped him to his feet. The naked man was bleeding where the glass had cut him. He had trouble standing upright. His hands clutched his cock and balls. His eyes were wide and white.

  “Come on,” Blackburn said. He slung his duffel over his shoulder and pulled the naked man toward the door.

  “I gotta,” the naked man gasped, “get my clothes.”

  “You won’t need them.”

  “People will see me.” The naked man was hairy and had a gut. His legs were skinny below the knees. He didn’t look good in the nude.

  “No, they won’t,” Blackburn said. “You’re riding in the trunk.”

  * * *

  When Blackburn opened the trunk on the Golden Gate Bridge, the naked man was screaming “You’re going to kill me! You’re going to kill me!”

  “Am not,” Blackburn said. He pulled the naked man from the trunk. The Rambler was parked next to the guard rail.

  The naked man hopped from one foot to the other, his stomach jiggling. The bridge had gathered solar energy and was hot.

  “So you’re not going to kill me?” the naked man asked.

  “No,” Blackburn said. “You’ll have to blame that on the fall.”

  The naked man stopped hopping. “Huh?”

  “Maybe drowning. But it’s a long way down.”

  The naked man tried to run into traffic. The cars honked. Blackburn caught him and dragged him back to the guard rail. When the naked man came up against the rail, he fought. But he was naked, his crotch was bruised, his cuts were bleeding, and the bridge was hot. Cars kept honking. Some of the drivers pointed. Blackburn waved to them.

  He didn’t watch the naked man all the way down to the Bay. Instead he pulled off the black cowboy boots and tossed them over the rail too. The naked man had paid for them; they were his.

  He put on his sneakers in the Rambler and then had a narrow escape from the police cars that wailed onto the bridge from San Francisco. He sped into Marin County and blasted north on Highway 101. He had a hard drive ahead of him. He would have to switch cars as soon as he had a few moments out of sight. The Python was on the seat beside him, just in case.

  “Good-bye, Dolores!” Blackburn called out the window as he headed toward Oregon.

  He decided to give up on love.

  VICTIM NUMBER TEN

  I-70 through eastern Colorado was as bleak as a bald tire. Blackburn was still over a hundred miles from the state line when billboards for the first Kansas tourist attraction began appearing. SEE THE WORLD’S LARGEST PRAIRIE DOG! they said. PET THE BABY PIGS!

  “Welcome home,” Blackburn told himself. But in fact he wouldn’t go anywhere near Wantoda. It was far off in the southeastern part of the state, and he would be sticking to I-70 all the way to Kansas City.

  He wiped his forehead with a handkerchief that was already wet. He was driving an old Valiant that he had stolen in Longmont, and it didn’t have an air conditioner. The wind blasting through the open windows scorched rather than cooled. Blackburn was out of soda pop and food, and the little cash remaining in his jeans pocket would have to go for gas. He couldn’t even afford to see the world’s largest prairie dog or to pet the baby pigs. But that was okay. As a child, he had heard from his friend Ernie that the prairie dog was a ripoff. It was a statue made of concrete. The baby pigs were probably real, but he doubted that petting them was much of a thrill.

  His mouth was dry, and his stomach was a knot against his backbone. Money or no money, he would have to refuel his body as well as the car. Seventeen miles into Kansas, he came to the town of Goodland and decided that its name was an omen. It would give him nourishment. He left the interstate, filled the Valiant’s tank, and then cruised up and down the dusty streets. He was looking for a community barbecue or church picnic to crash. It was a summer Saturday, so h
e figured the odds were good.

  He didn’t find a barbecue or picnic, but as he drove past a Lions Club hall, he saw that its parking lot was packed with cars and pickup trucks. The people going inside were dressed as if for Sunday services, and they carried packages wrapped in silver and white. These were the signs of a wedding reception, so Blackburn went around the block and pulled into the lot. He wouldn’t find an actual meal here, but he could at least score a piece of cake and something to drink. He was sure of success when he saw that the license plates in the lot were divided between Kansas and Illinois. It was unlikely that all of the Illinois folks knew all of the Goodland contingent, and vice versa. The groom’s family would think Blackburn was related to the bride, and the bride’s family would think he was related to the groom. He buttoned the top button of his short-sleeved cotton work shirt, put on a wrinkled black necktie from his duffel bag, and went inside. He looked like trash, but that would give the families something to talk about later. It would be his present.

  The reception line was still in progress when Blackburn came into the main room, so he hung back to wait for the cake to be served. The air-conditioning system was cranking full blast, and the cold air felt wonderful. Blackburn’s sweat began to dry. He was already glad he had stopped.

  When the reception line dwindled, the bridesmaids hustled the bride and groom over to the cake table, and the newlyweds did the traditional things with cake and punch that Blackburn had never been able to figure out. What was the point of linking your arms in order to spill punch down each other’s front? What was the point of mashing cake up each other’s nose? Maybe, he thought, those acts were supposed to be symbolic of what the couple had to look forward to in their married life.

  He got in line for cake, nodding to the middle-aged woman in front of him when she gave him a raised-eyebrow look. She turned away quickly. Blackburn hadn’t shaved in three days, and the long drive in the sun hadn’t done his body odor much good. But he was wearing a tie, so no one would have the guts to kick him out. He accepted a glass plate with a sliver of cake, then stopped at the nut and mint bowls and loaded up. He picked up a cup of orange punch at the end of the table, then finished his refreshments in two minutes and got in line again. He noticed that the middle-aged woman was whispering to another woman and pointing at him. His gift was in effect already.

  His second piece of cake was bigger than the first, so by the time he finished it and another cup of punch, the edges had worn off his hunger and thirst enough for him to realize that he had to go to the bathroom. He spotted a hallway leading off one corner of the room, so he left his plate and cup on a chair and headed in that direction. On the way, a burly man with a red face clapped him on the back and asked how he was doing. Blackburn answered that he was doing just fine and that it had been a heck of a wedding. The burly man agreed. His breath was pungent with beer, and he looked happy even though his shirt collar was too tight for his neck.

  “Don’t go nowhere,” the burly man said. “Larry’s settin’ up the music box for dancin’. Too many purty girls to leave now.”

  “Just going to the necessary room,” Blackburn said.

  The burly man laughed. “Necessary room!” he bellowed. He was still laughing as Blackburn left him and slipped into the hallway.

  The hallway was dim, so Blackburn let his fingertips trail along the paneled wall while his eyes adjusted. A door marked LADIES opened as he touched it, and a bridesmaid stepped out. His fingers brushed her bare shoulder and across the crisp fabric over her breasts. She gasped.

  He drew back. “Pardon me,” he said. It really had been an accident, and he hoped she realized it. He could imagine the ruckus if she accused him of copping a feel.

  “S’all right,” the girl mumbled, and hurried past. Blackburn didn’t think she would tell anyone. She probably assumed that he was a friend of the groom, and she wouldn’t want to embarrass her friend the bride.

  Blackburn raised his hand to his lips and blew on his fingertips. The bridesmaid’s skin had been smooth. Not as smooth as Dolores’s had been, but smooth enough. He wondered if she was over the age of consent, then decided that it didn’t matter. He didn’t have time to seduce a bridesmaid in western Kansas. He had to take a whiz, eat another piece of cake, and get on down the road.

  The hallway ended in a door marked GENTLEMEN. Blackburn tried the knob, but it didn’t turn. He leaned against the wall to wait, and before long the pressure in his bladder became painful. He tried the knob again, knocked, and then put his ear to the door. He thought he heard muffled sounds from within, but he couldn’t be sure because of the noise from the reception.

  “Hello?” he called. “Everything all right in there?” There was no answer, so he assumed that the door had been locked by accident. He gripped the knob, put his shoulder to the door, and shoved. It didn’t budge, so he took a few steps back and rammed it. The door popped open with a spang. The latch plate flew inside, ricocheted off the closed toilet stall, and landed in the urinal. Blackburn stepped into the rest room and shut the door behind him. It didn’t latch, but it stayed closed.

  He went to the urinal, unzipped, and urinated. As he finished, he heard a giggle, followed by a “Shh!” There were people inside the toilet stall. He zipped up and washed his hands, then squatted to look under the stall door. Someone wearing dark-blue pants and black shoes was sitting on the toilet. Someone with bare legs and feet was sitting on that person’s lap. A pair of yellow high heels and a crumpled wad of panty hose lay on the floor.

  Blackburn stood. This was none of his business.

  There was a squeal, and then the stall door flew open. A man and a woman tumbled onto the floor at Blackburn’s feet.

  The man looked up. “Lost our balance,” he said.

  Blackburn recognized him. He was the groom. His tuxedo pants were down around his knees. His ruffled white shirt was twisted.

  The woman underneath the groom was not the bride. She was wearing a yellow dress that was bunched around her waist. The woman looked up at Blackburn in terror and struggled to pull up the top part of her dress.

  Blackburn wanted to leave, but he couldn’t. The woman’s head was in front of the rest-room door, so he couldn’t open it without braining her. He leaned back against the sink to wait.

  The groom untangled himself and stood. Blackburn averted his eyes while the groom pulled up his underwear and pants. The woman was still adjusting her dress while lying on the floor. When she finished, the groom lifted her to her feet and handed her the high heels and panty hose. She opened the door a crack to peek into the hallway, then hurried out. The door swung shut after her. Blackburn stepped forward and put his hand on the knob.

  “Hang on a second,” the groom said.

  Blackburn paused. “Why?”

  “I want to explain.” The groom took his tuxedo jacket from a hook inside the stall and put it on. One lapel had an orange stain and a smear of white frosting. The groom produced a flat pint bottle of Wild Turkey from an inner pocket, took a drink, and offered the bottle to Blackburn. Blackburn shook his head and started to open the door. The groom pushed it shut.

  Blackburn took his hand from the knob. “Last guy who did that,” he said, “can’t tie his shoes now.”

  The groom stepped between Blackburn and the door. “Look, I can understand you being pissed off as a first reaction,” he said. “You’re Eleanor’s cousin, right?”

  Blackburn said nothing. He put his hands in his pockets as a precaution. He didn’t want to hurt the groom. There were a lot of people between the rest room and the parking lot, and he wasn’t armed.

  “Okay, you don’t have to say anything,” the groom said. “And I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t say anything to Eleanor either. It wouldn’t make sense. Once you stop being pissed, you’ll see what I mean.”

  “I don’t follow,” Blackburn said.

  The groom tapped his wedding ring against the whiskey bottle. “You married?”

  “I was,” B
lackburn said. He assumed that Dolores had arranged a divorce by now. If she hadn’t, it was all the same to him. They were divorced as far as he was concerned.

  “Was,” the groom repeated. “Man, then you’ve got to know what I’m talking about.” He took another drink. “What’s your name?”

  “Carl.”

  The groom extended his right hand. “I’m Steve. But I guess you knew that.”

  Blackburn kept his hands in his pockets.

  The groom lowered his hand. “Well, shit, Carl. Remember getting married? You stand up there with this girl, in front of a church full of relatives, and the preacher makes you swear to ‘forsake all others.’ And that ain’t natural, but there’s all those relatives, so what are you gonna do? You’re trapped. And then an hour later—”

  “You’re banging somebody in the bathroom,” Blackburn said.

  The groom grinned. “Not on purpose. But there in church, I was thinking, Man, is that it? I mean, look, I’m not ashamed to say that I love Eleanor. I don’t want to be married to anyone else. You know?”

  “If you say so.”

  “It’s the truth. But women, you know, their brains are screwed. They think that being in love and getting laid are the same goddamn thing. And it ain’t so. Am I right?”

  Blackburn considered. “I don’t know that women think they’re the same.”

  The groom took another swig of Wild Turkey and shook his head. “Well, when you marry one of them, that’s what she thinks. At least, that’s what Eleanor thinks.”

  “How do you know?” Blackburn asked. “You only just now married her.”

  The groom shrugged. “We talked about it when we got engaged. I mean, she talked about it. She’s got this little girl’s idea about one man, one woman, happily ever after, all that fairy-tale bullshit. It’s a weird attitude for her to take too, because before we got together, she wasn’t exactly—” He hesitated. “Well, shit, the truth’s the truth. She wasn’t exactly, you know, a virgin when we started dating.”