Mel gestured appealingly over his glass. “It’s just not a way I’m used to thinking, Brett. Does it make sense? I mean, you and Steph don’t have that kind of complication. You get along just the way I always thought steady people do, don’t you? You’ve got one person and you stick with it, right? Or do I belong to some other century or something?”
He raised his glass and took a swig. His head was swimming, and a part of him knew that his mouth had been running away with itself in a way that he’d normally have cared more about than he particularly did right now. But that was what alcohol was for. It gave people a socially acceptable excuse for saying all things they’d been wanting to, and a ready-made reason for claiming afterward that they hadn’t really meant it or didn’t remember. The custom also obliged everyone else to say it was okay, even when they knew damn well you had meant it and you did remember.
Brett, listening with an arm draped along the back of the booth, stroked his beard with a knuckle while he thought how to answer. “Well, I guess that’s just the way Eva is. I know how you feel. But it’s not because she thinks less of you. You can’t really judge her by the regular rules. She lives by her own rules. This may sound kinda strange, but the fact that she goes for you at all makes you pretty exceptional… er, in her way of thinking… if you know what I mean.”
“Oh, come on. What do you take me for?”
“No, really. If she thought you were just some regular schmucko-nerd, she’d never have bothered. She’s got better things to do. You ought to try and see it as a compliment.”
Mel’s eyes widened indignantly. “Compliment! This dildo can breeze into town and screw my woman whenever he feels like it, and you say I should feel it’s a compliment? I feel like a spare toy. What kind of compliment is that supposed to be?”
“Okay, then why stick around?” Brett challenged, matching Mel’s tone. “Just tell her to go fuck herself.”
Mel sighed and drained the rest of his drink. “Shit, you know why… She’s different.”
“There you are, then. You can’t have it both ways.”
“Intelligent is the word, I guess. It’s her mind. She’s free, in a way I can’t really understand… Do you know, I’ve got a suspicion that deep down I might be envious that she can be that way… but I don’t want to admit it to myself.”
Brett nodded seriously, in a way that said he did know. “You called her your woman a second ago. Maybe that’s your problem. She never accepted being anybody’s woman. Wouldn’t Dave have as much right to bitch about that dildo down in Pensacola who screws his woman while he’s out of town? What’s the difference? In fact, he was there first.”
“I don’t know if I can handle it.”
“Then there you are. That’s the difference.” Brett waved a hand vaguely near his shoulder. “It’s the way she is, and the way she’ll always be.”
Mel stared at his empty glass and shook his head. “Fuck it, no, Brett. That’s not it. I think I could handle that. What bugs me is the feeling of being put on the line like some kind of rat in a lab test. Why should I have to handle it? See, it’s not just her freedom that I envy. I envy the power she has… the power to make me play by her rules. Why should I have to?”
“You don’t. You could opt out.”
“But I already said I don’t want to.”
“Then what are you asking me to say?” Brett indicated Mel’s glass with a finger. “You’re already ruined for tomorrow, anyway. Want another?” Mel nodded mechanically. Brett sat back, looked around until he caught the eye of the waitress who was serving drinks at a nearby table, and signaled with a hand. She nodded that she’d seen him. Brett hunched forward and rested his elbows on the table. “Maybe you’re mad because she won’t jump into the trap that you want to catch her in,” he suggested.
“What trap?”
“Come on. You know what I mean. Why should she have to play by your rules, either? Just because some people who think they’re nice Christians, and that everyone else ought to be like them, say she should? If you think about it that way, it isn’t her who’s trying to hang rules on anybody at all. It’s you. Maybe you’re in a trap, and she’s giving you a chance to jump out. Try thinking about it that way, maybe.”
Mel leaned back and peered at Brett oddly for a few seconds. “You know, I get the distinct impression that this isn’t especially news to you,” he said. “You already knew Eva was this way, didn’t you?”
Brett pursed his lips, then nodded. “Steph’s her sister, after all. We talk about things… I mean, hell, what do you expect?”
“She told you about the way Eva is?”
“She… sorta mentioned it once or twice, I guess, yup… Warned me that you might have problems.”
“You shithead! And you never said anything to me. What kind of a pal are you supposed to be?”
“Aw, come on. There are things that are best to keep to yourself if you’re smart. You know that. And anyhow, I was straight about it. You asked me, and I told you. It wouldn’t have done any good to say anything before.”
The waitress came over to the booth to take their order. The name badge on her skimpy, frilly-skirted costume said that she was Muriel. “Can I get you another, guys?” she asked.
Brett was just about to answer, when three figures that had been threading their way between the tables from the bar arrived noisily at the booth. They were Chuck, Harry, and Scottie, all from the campus, obviously out on the town for a night and making the most of it.
“Hey, waddya know, it’s Mel and Brett! Want some more company?” Chuck slid into the booth beside Brett without waiting for an answer.
“Perfect timing,” Harry said, squeezing in next to Chuck. “You can get us one, too, Muriel. Mine’s a Bud.”
“Miller Lite, and your phone number,” Chuck said.
Muriel turned her eyes briefly upward. “Oh boy, all I needed was these three. The beer, I can get. You couldn’t afford the rest.”
“Get a load of this!” Chuck exploded, howling with laughter. “Say, how about negotiating?”
“I’ll give you my heart. Anything else, you have to fight for.”
Scottie sat down next to Mel. “Make mine a Beck’s dark, please.”
“And the same for us, I guess,” Brett added.
“Got it.” She turned away to head for the bar.
“Hey, Muriel,” Chuck called after her as she moved away. She stopped and looked back. “What’s the difference between a cocktail waitress and a proctologist?”
“I couldn’t begin to imagine.”
“A proctologist only has to deal with one asshole at a time. Ha ha ha!”
“Gimme a break.” Muriel moved away, shaking her head.
“I thought you guys would be out at the barbecue,” Brett said.
Chuck shrugged. “Ah, we decided to give it a miss.”
“Have you two eaten yet?” Harry asked. “We were thinking of going on over to McGuire’s later.”
“I’d rather go Chinese,” Scottie said.
“Why did the pervert cross the road?” Chuck asked.
“Go on,” Scottie said.
“Because he’d gotten stuck in the chicken!”
Mel caught Brett’s eye for an instant and covered his brow with a hand. He didn’t need this just now. Brett shrugged, but there was nothing he could do. There would be no way of getting rid of them now without being a lot more unfriendly than the situation warranted.
Mel turned to Scottie. “Before you get too comfortable, I need to go to the can.”
“What? Oh, sure.” Scottie got up again to let Mel out. Mel stood up a little too quickly, and his head went dizzy. He swayed and bumped against Scottie. “Hey, steady on there, Mel,” Scottie said. “You two must be making a night of it, eh?”
“Sorry about that,” Mel mumbled.
“This Polack joins the airborne, see…” Chuck went on behind him as he lurched away.
Mel felt curiously detached from the surroundings of peop
le and noise. His vision telescoped to just a patch immediately in front of him, through which faces, bodies, legs, and tables passed disconnectedly as he made his way to the edge of the dance floor, and then along to the corridor at the rear where the washrooms were located. The two doors were side by side. The door to the right carried the sign GENTS, with a hand pointing to the one at the left; the door to the left said LADIES and had a hand pointing to the one at the right. As always, there were a couple of people standing bemusedly outside, trying to figure it out. Knowing the place, Mel went into the left-hand door, just as an embarrassed-looking man emerged from the other. Never a night went by without someone being caught.
He didn’t want to go back and have to listen to Chuck and the rest of them, he decided while he was inside. He’d rather be on his own. Suddenly, the thought struck him of calling Eva. Then he wasn’t sure if he should while he was like this. But then, maybe it would make her a little guilty to see the state she had driven him to. Would it be a good idea or a bad idea? He would go somewhere quieter to think it over. And anyway, he needed some air.
He was emerging onto the street—parked cars, neon signs, some people about. Since the oncoming traffic was stopped at a red light at the end of the block, he crossed over. Images and impressions flowed by in a blurred procession. Packed coffee shop with booths and faces inside the plate glass window; black couple talking outside the door; smell of steaks… Bumper sticker on a parked van: don’t tell me what kind of fuckin’ day to have… Pizza parlor; lights, loud music inside; more cooking smells. No, not hungry… Pay phone. Call Eva? Stop. Maybe not. Sit down somewhere and think about it first… Corner store, still open: newspapers, magazines, liquor, and groceries. Gray cat asleep in window.
Darker street, narrower, leading toward docks. Dingy bar; shuttered stores; greasy restaurant… And then he became aware of the figures of two women standing by a doorway near a small bar a short distance ahead on the far side, picked out vaguely in the light from a streetlamp. Something compelled him across the street as he came nearer. One was tall, dark-haired and dusky-skinned, with a red leather coat and a skirt showing lots of fishnet-stockinged leg. The other was fairer, in a blouse, tight pants, and high boots. Although he was now in the part of town where the hookers hung out, he didn’t make the connection until the taller one smiled, eyeing him seductively, and spoke as he approached. “Hi. Looking for a good time?”
Confusion swamped him suddenly, and he kept walking. By the time any kind of coherence had returned in his head, he was already several paces past them. “How about an even better time with two girls?” her voice suggested after him. But if he’d stopped, he wouldn’t have known what to say, so he kept going and rounded the first corner he came to.
But the glimpse he’d seen of the taller one’s body in the low-cut top inside her open coat, and the firm lines of her hips had aroused him. As he walked on in his stupor, he found himself fantasizing about following her upstairs to a room, probably less than a block away… watching her undress for him… and as he turned the next corner, he knew he was going to circle the block to bring him back to the same place. He had never tried it with a hooker before. As with most young men of his age, the subject was one that had filled him with curiosity, purely because of its mystery and illicitness. He’d brought a wad out with him tonight, and he had plenty left. He sensed the decision that his mind had already made somewhere below its ragged level of consciousness, and the anticipation increased his excitement.
Then he thought about Eva again, and in that moment the prospect became not simply a matter of an adventure to satisfy curiosity, but a deliberate gesture of self-assertion and defiance. Minutes ago he’d been considering calling her and… and then what? Go scampering back to agree to being one of her pets? “No way!” he muttered aloud to himself. And suddenly he felt a foot taller, and his stride swung into a jaunty swagger. “No way.” he repeated. “I don’t need your kind of shit, lady!”
But when he came around the last corner and was halfway along the block, he saw that the darker-haired girl was gone, and a man in a light jacket was talking to the one in the pants. Mel walked on by, trying to act nonchalant and natural—as if either of them cared. When he came to the bar a little farther along, he turned on impulse and went inside.
It was smoky and sleazy, and a jukebox was playing a rock-jazz number. There were whites, blacks, Cubans, His-panics. Several of the heads turned to follow him curiously as he crossed to a vacant stool at the bar. The bartender, tall, lean, unsmiling, with black curly hair and swarthy, pockmarked features, raised his eyebrows inquiringly. “Scotch,” Mel told him. “Just on the rocks.” He pulled out his billfold and pushed a twenty across the bar. The bartender scooped ice into a glass, topped it up from a bottle of Johnny Walker Black Label, and sent it back with change. Mel raised the glass, then hesitated for a moment and gripped the edge of the bar as the room swam sickeningly. For an awful moment he thought he was about to lose his balance and crash off the stool in front of the whole place. But the feeling passed. He took a long breath to suck oxygen into his lungs, drained an inch of the amber liquid, and set the glass down. Then he half turned on his seat, resting an elbow on the bar to show he was at home and belonged there, like in the movies. But it was girls he was looking for. His eyes roamed unsteadily around the room. An unattached one? An available one? Fat or older or ugly—he didn’t care now. He was aroused and drunk, and he wanted action.
She read easily the signals that he was telegraphing, and came from somewhere at the back of the room, squeezing between him and the next customer to get to the bar. Mel looked at her: tall, dark-skinned, with wavy black hair hanging to her shoulders, and a low-cut top. For a moment he thought she was the one he’d passed outside, without her coat, but when he looked down he saw that she had plain stockings, not fishnets. Cuban or Central American, he decided.
“Some change for the cigarette machine, Enrico,” she said to the bartender, proffering a bill. The bartender took it and turned away. Then she turned her head and seemed to notice Mel for the first time. “Hello. Out all on your own tonight, eh?”
Mel shrugged and tried to look what he hoped was appropriate. “It happens.” Full, thick lips, with dark lipstick. Long lashes, accentuated with mascara. Firm, well-rounded body, nipples pressing against the material of her top. He wanted to bite them, run his hands all over her, and felt himself going hot and cold at the sudden realization that something was going to happen. It was like the feeling he’d had at Eva’s place that first night.
“Oh…” She turned fully, leaning closer to let him peek down between her breasts, and lowered her voice. “Looking for some company, maybe?”
“Sure. Who isn’t?” he managed to toss out indifferently.
“How about me? You like it? Think we could have a little fun?”
“Want to go someplace?”
She pouted reproachfully and touched his chin with a fingertip. “You men! That’s not very romantic. First we must get to know each other a little. Is okay, yes? If you’re a gentleman, you buy me a drink.” Mel frowned uncertainly. She moved closer, rubbing her hip against the inside of his thigh. Her perfume was nice, not too heavy. “Come on, what’s a little drink?” she said. Her finger played at the neckline of his collar. “I’ll give you a real good time, I promise.”
He grinned then, feeling slightly foolish. “Sure. What’ll it be?”
“That’s better. Vodka tonic with a little lime. What’s your name?”
“Mel.”
“I am called Juanita.” She nudged his arm and indicated a small table off to one side, with two empty chairs. “We can take our drinks over there and sit. More cozy.”
Mel raised a hand to get the bartender’s attention. “Vodka tonic with a splash of lime for Juanita here, Enrico. And another Black Label for me.” He produced his billfold and peeled out another of the twenties with a flourish, a man in a man’s world, now. So, even if he did decide tomorrow that he’d been a pr
ick, what of it?
As Mel opened the billfold, Juanita stole a glance at it, and while he was paying Enrico, she sent a barely perceptible nod to two Puerto Ricans who were watching from near the back, where she had come from. One was long and lankily built, but with powerful shoulders, sinewy hands, and a craggy face with a cruel, thin-lipped mouth. The other was stockier, with neck-length hair, a ragged Pancho Villa mustache, and narrow sardonic eyes. Mel picked up the glasses, and Juanita steered him by his arm to the table she had indicated. They talked for about five minutes, she rubbing his leg with hers and touching his arm constantly, he trying hard not to show his rising impatience. By the time they got around to the money side of it he would have agreed to twice the going rate, and the figure she named came almost as a pleasant surprise. While this was going on, the two Puerto Ricans rose and left through the rear entrance.
Finally Juanita said, “So, we go now, yes?”
“Just lead the way, honey.”
She laid a restraining hand on his arm. “There is just one little problem. Is not good for us to leave here together. The police give us trouble all the time—they watch this place. Is snack bar one block from here, called Star. I have to meet you there in five minutes. Is okay, yes? Then we go to my place, just a short walk.”
Mel frowned, but there was no choice but to go along with it. Besides, he hadn’t paid her anything yet. “Where’s this place?” he asked.
“You go out rear entrance here, into alley. Go left to far end, then right when you come to street. Star snack bar is along on same side.”
The Mirror Maze Page 23
