Authors: Richard Laymon
‘Do I look okay?’ she asked.
‘Great. Ready to go?’
She peered down at herself, then stepped over to a mirror and studied her reflection. ‘I look great to me, too,’ she finally said, and laughed.
Able to see her front and back simultaneously, Neal was struck by the bareness of her arms and legs. No sleeves at all, hardly enough skirt to mention . . .
‘You aren’t afraid you might get cold?’ he asked.
‘What am I gonna do? This is all I got, less ya want me goin over there lookin like a waitress.’
‘I have some extra clothes in my suitcase.’
‘I’ll be fine,’ she said. Then she came over to him, took hold of his arm, and led him to the door.
They passed nobody in the corridor. After a brief wait, the elevator arrived. It was empty, the same as last time. They stepped inside.
Again, Sue seemed fascinated by the mirrors. ‘It’s like yer disappearin in ’em,’ she said. ‘Ya keep on gettin tinier and tinier, and then it’s like yer just
gone
.’ She grimaced. ‘Kinda gives me the creeps.’ Her hand tightened its grip on Neal’s arm.
‘They need to have a mirror on the floor,’ he said.
‘You!’ Without letting go, she bumped him with her shoulder.
‘I just said that to cure you of the creeps.’
‘You’d just
love
to have a mirror down there, and then ya could look up my skirt.’
‘Nah,’ Neal said.
The elevator stopped for no one else. They stepped out at the casino level, walked through the smoke and odors of booze and perfume and noises of clanking coins and ringing jackpot bells, walked past the registration area and out a door into a late afternoon of sunlight and quiet, and a fresh, warm wind.
‘Ooo, this is niiiice,’ Sue said. Hurrying ahead, she raised her arms as if she wanted to embrace the sunlight or wind. After a few strides, she whirled around. As she turned, Neal glimpsed the pale skin of her armpit and side through the gaping hole where her sleeve had been removed. Then she was walking backward, smiling at him, her arms still high. The wind, coming from behind, blew her hair forward past the sides of her face.
My God, look at her
.
Neal felt a sudden sharp sadness and longing and joy.
He shook his head.
I can’t be falling for her, he told himself. She’s a
kid
.
An airhead. A nuisance. A nitwit
.
An angel
.
Knock it off! Remember Marta
.
Sue lowered her arms, but kept on walking backward. ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked.
‘Nothing.’
‘Ya look like ya got a pain.’
‘Just you.’
‘Ain’t
you
sweet,’ she said, then laughed, came back to walk beside him, and took his hand.
With the town behind them and nothing except the Fort ahead, they left the sidewalk and strolled up the middle of the street. Soon, the pavement ended. A smooth, yellow dirt lane led between the twin field pieces to the stockade entrance. Just beyond the main gate, they came to a row of ticket booths. Of the dozen cubicles, only one was open. Seven or eight people waited in front of it, standing in line to buy tickets.
The admission price, announced on large signs above every booth, was twenty dollars per adult.
Closing time was midnight on Fridays and Saturdays, but 10:00 p.m. every other night.
This was a Tuesday.
‘Holy crites!’ Sue blurted.
‘What?’
‘Twenty bucks! That’s gonna be
forty
!
Told
ya we oughta use the bracelet.’
‘Still cheaper than Disneyland,’ Neal pointed out.
‘We ain’t gonna pay all that!’
‘I’m paying,’ Neal said. ‘It’s fine. It’s on me. Don’t worry about it.’
‘Forty bucks!’
‘Take it easy.’
She shook her head. ‘It’s robbery.’
‘A drop in the bucket,’ Neal told her. ‘We’ll have that fifty thousand in a few days.’
‘Oh, sure thing.’
In spite of Sue’s protests, they remained in line. The admission
price didn’t bother Neal, but he
didn’t
want to use up that much cash, so he decided to pay with a credit card. The card would create a ‘plastic trail.’ That shouldn’t matter, though; he didn’t think the cops were after him.
How could they be?
They might’ve found his business card in Elise’s house, but he doubted it. He was nearly certain that Rasputin had taken the card.
And Rasputin apparently hadn’t paid him a visit at the apartment, so it hardly seemed likely that the guy would try hunting him down by checking on his credit card purchases.
A guy like that might not even have the capability.
But suppose he does? Suppose he’s feeling better now, and figures it’s time to pay me back, shut me up
. . .
Neal slipped the MasterCard back into his wallet, reached for some cash, and suddenly remembered that he’d already used the credit card to pay for their room at the Apache Inn.
The damage is already done
.
There probably
isn’t
any damage, he told himself. It had been a mistake, though, using the credit card for the hotel. At the time, he hadn’t even
considered
that Rasputin might be able to locate him from it.
Don’t worry about it. Even if he’s one of those guys who knows how to find out everything about you on that ‘information superhighway,’ he’d still have to deal with the concrete highways. Take him eight or nine hours to get here
.
Neal did some mental arithmetic, counting hours from the time they’d checked into the Apache Inn.
The bastard could be here by midnight!
But he won’t be, Neal told himself. Not unless he magically recovered from his gunshot wounds. Nobody would put himself through the torture of driving a car five hundred miles when he has two or three bullet holes in him.
If he’s not nuts – or dead – he won’t do anything for the next couple of weeks except stay in bed
.
Neal went ahead and used the MasterCard to pay for their admission tickets. Which he soon handed to a fellow dressed in a blue cavalry uniform, who tore them in half. Stubs in hand, Neal led the way through a turnstile.
On the other side of the turnstile, Sue took hold of his hand.
They stood side by side, looking around.
In front of them was a broad, open area that appeared to be the Fort’s parade ground. A pretty good crowd had gathered, up ahead. The spectators seemed to be watching some sort of performance by a squad of mounted soldiers. The soldiers had their sabers drawn.
The parade ground was surrounded by log buildings that appeared to house a variety of shops and restaurants. All the rides, and whatever else the Fort had to offer, seemed to be located beyond the far end of the grounds. People were wandering through a broad opening at the rear of the stockade fence. Neal could see the tops of the rides in the distance.
‘Where do you want to start?’ he asked.
Sue shrugged. ‘Don’t wanta miss noth . . . anything. Wanta start over there, and work our way round?’
‘The time-honored counter-clockwise method of amusement park perusal.’
She contorted her face at him. ‘
What?
’
‘This way,’ he said, and pointed.
They crossed the dusty parade ground, walked behind a couple of horses at a hitching post, then climbed onto an elevated wooden walkway and entered the first shop.
It specialized in western wear. They wandered around for a while, admiring the cowboy hats, boots, fancy shirts, blue jeans, leather vests, buckskin jackets, silver belt buckles and bolo ties. ‘If you see anything you want,’ Neal said, ‘just let me know.’
Sue made a face, shrugged, and shook her head.
‘I love that stuff,’ Neal confessed after leaving the shop. ‘Only problem is, you go around dressed like a cowboy in L.A., and somebody’s likely to beat you up. Or shoot you.’
‘Ya oughta move.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Why not hit the roads with me? We’ll go off in my four-wheel-drive Jeep Cherokee, and see the country. Ya can wear the whole nine yards – chaps and a ten-gallon hat and spurs that jingle. I won’t even beat ya up or shoot ya.’
Neal knew that she was joking around.
But he also suspected that she meant it.
As they roamed from shop to shop, Neal thought about how it might be, traveling the country with Sue. It seemed like a fantasy,
not a real possibility. He had a living to earn, his career to build. And what about Marta? He couldn’t just dump her.
Hell, he didn’t
want
to dump Marta. He loved her. He’d supposed that, before long, he would probably ask her to marry him.
He probably
still
wanted to marry her.
But now there was Sue.
What if it turns out that she loves me and she really wants me with her?
Then you’ve got a problem, buddy. You’ll have to choose between the two of them
.
How ironic that would be, he thought. Suddenly having to make a choice between two women, when he’d gone so long without any. Before Marta, there’d been about ten years of nothing.
A girlfriend now and then, but nothing serious.
He’d
gotten serious about a few of them, but they hadn’t shared his enthusiasm. Most of them seemed to be looking for ‘the big kill’ – a guy who was already rich, or well on his way toward major bucks.
Neal never quite filled that bill.
He had made his first and only marriage proposal at the age of twenty-one to Judy Fain, a classmate at USC. She’d responded, ‘I dearly love you, Neal. You’re so sweet. But I’m afraid that you’d never be able to support me in the manner to which I intend to become accustomed.’
The money issue had never come up with his first love, Sammi Wyatt. But she’d moved back east when they were both seventeen. They’d kept in touch for about nine months, but then she’d told him on the phone about a guy named Keith . . .
It had all been downhill after that, in the woman department.
Until Marta.
She didn’t seem to mind that he wasn’t on the road to riches.
Loves me for myself
.
By the time he’d met Marta, however, he’d already sold one screenplay and had a few other projects in various stages of development.
I wasn’t a complete loser any more
.
‘Are you starvin?’ Sue asked, interrupting his thoughts.
‘Sure am,’ he said, and found himself standing with her at the door to the Mess o’ Ribs Mess Hall.
Sue tipped back her head. Eyes half shut, she breathed in deeply through her nostrils. ‘Sure smells fine,’ she said.
The air coming through the doorway was rich with aromas of wood fires, sizzling meat and barbecue sauces.
‘Let’s go in,’ Neal said.
‘Might cost an arm and a leg. Maybe only just one of us oughta really eat, and . . .’
‘Don’t worry about it. Get on in there.’
She hesitated.
Neal swatted her gently on the rump. He meant it only to encourage her to move, so he was surprised by the way he noticed the soft warmth of her leather skirt and the firm, bouncy feel of her buttock.
Seated across from each other in a booth near the back of the Mess o’ Ribs Mess Hall, they both ordered margaritas.
The waiter asked to see Sue’s i.d. Smiling pleasantly, she took out her wallet, searched through its fat bill compartment, and came up with a driver’s license.
The waiter studied it for a moment, then said, ‘Thank you, Miss Taylor.’
After he left, Neal said, ‘Isn’t your name supposed to be Babcock? Barbra Sue Babcock?’
She grinned. ‘My drinkin name’s Elaine Taylor.’
‘You’re a criminal.’
‘Yup.’
‘What else do you do?’
‘Not much.’ Leaning forward and looking him in the eyes, she said, ‘Is it breakin the law if ya go and sit in a rib joint without yer drawers on?’
Neal gaped at her. ‘You’re kidding,’ he muttered.
Grinning, she sat up straight, wiggled a bit, and said, ‘Nope.’
‘What’re you trying to do?’ Neal asked.
She shrugged.
‘I’m . . . involved with Marta.’
‘I know. But that don’t mean I gotta wear drawers. Doesn’t.’
The waiter arrived with their drinks. When he was gone, Sue lifted her cloth napkin off the table, shook it open, and spread it across her lap.