Live Girls (2 page)

As he wearily seated himself, he found a note on his typewriter. Red ink, delicate feminine handwriting:

Davey
—
Three more mss. for
Brute Force
.
Need a gun check ASAP.

Sheri

He lifted one of the manuscripts. The title: “I Blew Away the Punks Who Tried to Rape My Sister.” He scanned the first two pages and spotted several references to guns; he would have to verify their accuracy. He would call Morris at Target Guns in Jersey; Morris was an expert on guns and quite a fan of
Brute Force
magazine; he considered it an honor to contribute whatever he could.

Davey sighed, propped an elbow on the desktop, and put his chin in his palm, fighting the urge to put on his coat and go back home where he could read a good book, or the
Times,
maybe even this week's
People,
for Christ's sake. Anything would be better than the stuff Penn put out: vigilante rags, “true” crime and romance magazines, the kind of magazines that crowded grocery store racks with covers dulled by greasy fingerprints. But this was his job.

It was a job Beth had always held against him.

“Almost nine months I've been living in this dump with you,” she'd said to him angrily that morning, emptying her dresser drawers into her suitcase. “Nine months and you're
still
working for that cheap-shit publishing company, waiting for a break so you can maybe have a little extra money to play around with. But nothing ever happens.
What,
” she'd snapped, spinning around to face him, a strip of perspiration glowing on her upper lip, “you think somebody's just gonna walk in one day and
hand
you a Goddamned promotion? ‘cause you smile nice, maybe? Uh-uh, my friend. It doesn't work that way."

A sigh dragged heavily from deep inside Davey's chest and he shook his head to empty it of the echoes of her voice.

He'd tried to tell her about the promotion he'd be getting any day now. Fritz, one of the assistant editors, had left and his position was open. Davey was certain he'd get it because he'd been there the longest. It was time for him to move up, dammit. It seemed he'd been sitting in that little cubicle reading trash forever. He'd tried to tell Beth all of that, but it didn't do any good.

“I don't want to hear it, Davey,” she'd said. “Really. I mean, how long have you been working there? They
know
they can shit on you, so they're going to. They'll give the job to someone they can't push around.” She'd paused to slam the suitcase shut and flick the latches. “I know you, Davey. You'll stay there in your shitty little cubicle getting shitty little wages forever. And if I stay with you, what then? What about
me?
” She faced him. “I mean, I'm a very social person, y'know? I like to go
out
once in a while, right?
You
sure as hell can't afford to take me, and with the pennies I make selling tickets at the Union, I can't either. So I find some guys who can. Like I did last night. And last month. And a couple weeks before that. And I would just
keep
doing it. And, of course, you would put up with it.” She shook her head slowly. “No, Davey, I just don't want to hear it."

He belched hungrily. He'd missed breakfast that morning; Beth's departure had destroyed his appetite. He'd spent the morning, after his shower, sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee and his sketchpad, drawing. Some people smoked, some people cracked their knuckles. Davey Owen drew. He never knew exactly what he was drawing, even as his pencil swirled over the paper. He just pulled out whatever was inside of him and let it spill onto the page. That morning, he'd become more and more uncomfortable with the images appearing on the page. At first, hair. Then a forehead, an eye, another eye. He began to recognize the face he'd looked into so many times.

Beth.

He'd flipped the page and begun drawing again. The lines and curves began to take shape. A mouth.
Her
mouth, with that odd little slant on the left side that gave her a permanent smirk.

He'd torn out both pages and tossed them into the trash, leaving early for work.

At his desk, he considered going to the lounge for a cup of coffee, but decided not to, knowing that Chad Wilkes was probably there. Chad Wilkes was
always
there. And the coffee in the lounge was simply not worth an encounter with Chad Wilkes so early in the day.

“Son of a bitch.” He sighed, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. He ached with frustration.

Adjusting his chair, he leaned over “I Blew Away the Punks Who Tried to Rape My Sister” and turned to the first page, hoping he would see Casey sometime today. Seeing Casey always seemed to help.

Walter Benedek collapsed his umbrella and went into the lobby of his sister's apartment building.

“Hello, Norman,” he said to the doorman with a friendly nod.

“Good morning, Mr. Benedek,” the short round man replied with a smile, touching two fingers to the shiny black bill of his cap.

Benedek punched the UP button with his gloved thumb, then stood with hands folded in front, facing the silver mirrorlike doors of the elevator. He was a very tall man, with broad shoulders and a deep chest; he was hefty but not fat. His face was long and rubbery and had been compared, on occasion, by a few abhorrently honest people, to the face of a basset hound. His black hair was sprouting ever-growing patches of gray, and there were some wiry silver hairs mixed in with the bushy blackness of his eyebrows. He was forty-seven years old and looked no younger, no older.

“Want me to call ahead, Mr. Benedek?” Norman asked.

“No, thanks. She's expecting me for breakfast."

The elevator arrived with a quiet
ding
and the doors rolled open silently. Benedek stepped inside, hit seventeen, and waited. The doors closed and he heard the music he'd come to hate so much playing from the speaker overhead, barely distinguishable. This morning it was a choir singing an old Beatles tune. Lots of strings. A soprano solo. Benedek took his gloves off and stuffed them into the pockets of his overcoat.

Walter Benedek's sister Doris Macy lived on the seventeenth floor. Vernon would be gone by now, presumably at work, but, Benedek thought, probably not. Janice, who didn't actually live there but certainly seemed to, would probably be watching game shows with her mother. And Doris. Well, Doris would probably be curled up on the sofa staring at the TV, but not really seeing whoever was giving away the money this half hour. She would be sitting there chewing a thumbnail, nervously twitching her slippered foot, worrying about Vernon.

She had come to Benedek a little over two weeks ago. He'd opened his apartment door to find her standing in the corridor, eyes narrow with worry. She was concerned about Vernon. He was acting ... different. He wasn't himself. He came home late from work, sometimes not until dawn, and then only to take a shower and go back to work. He didn't eat, lost his temper easily, and he was so very pale. At first, she told him, she'd thought he was having an affair. Then she'd become afraid for his health.

“He's always been so stoic,” she'd said to Benedek as they sat at his kitchen table having coffee. “He would never tell me if he were ill. Even seriously ill. Please, Walter, you have a vacation coming up, don't you? Do you think you could ... oh, just spend some time with him, maybe? I don't know what, really, but he needs something. Some
one
. And
I
don't seem able to get through to him. Could you help me, Walter? Please?"

Poor timid, dowdy, bighearted Doris who, when she was a young and single woman, could have done so much better for herself than that doughy, pudgy-fingered businessman with his clipped speech and his permanent frown. Benedek sighed and shook his head, remembering how lively his big sister had been when they were kids, and how different Vernon had made her.

Benedek had not talked to his brother-in-law. He hadn't even tried. He'd never been comfortable with Vernon Macy. They had always rubbed one another the wrong way. But he did have some time on his hands, a few weeks of long-awaited vacation from his job at the
Times
. So he'd followed Vernon one morning, staying out of sight. The man had not gone to work, but to Times Square, straight into a dark little place called Live Girls. Benedek's years as a reporter had sharpened his eye and he'd had no doubt that morning as he watched his brother-in-law walk through that black curtain with such purpose that Vernon Macy not only knew where he was going, but had been there before.

Benedek had followed him a few times after that, and each time Vernon had returned to Live Girls. That disturbed Benedek, although he wasn't sure why. Neither was Benedek sure exactly what it was about that dark, inconspicuous little peep joint that unsettled him so. Maybe it was his reporter's intuition, a hunch. But Walter Benedek, in all his years of reporting, had never for a moment believed in intuition or hunches.

He had not spoken with Doris about her husband since she'd asked for his help a couple of weeks ago. He knew she would ask him about it over breakfast, and he didn't know what to tell her. He supposed that the news of Vernon's seedy pastime would be better than no news at all. It would at least assure her that he was not sick, was not seeing another woman. At least, not in the way she'd suspected.

But with the relief would come the hurt in her face. Her top lip would curl under like an old leaf and tears would glitter like diamonds in the corners of her eyes.

Doris would be very hurt.

The elevator whispered to a halt and the doors slid open. Benedek turned left down the corridor. He stopped outside his sister's apartment and punched the button beside the door. He decided, as he heard the muffled buzz inside, that he would tell Doris that Vernon was simply going through the much-talked-about midlife crisis, a second adolescence of sorts. Benedek wasn't entirely satisfied with that story, but it would have to do. He didn't think he could bear those glittering tears.

He waited for the familiar sound of movement behind the door, the rattle of locks being unfastened. All he heard was the television.

“...and Jerry Mathers as the Beaver,” the announcer was saying happily over the perky theme music.

Benedek punched the button again.

The television continued to play loudly inside.

His bushy eyebrows drew together tightly above his nose as he raised a big hand and rapped his knuckles on the door several times.

“Follow your nose,” the television sang, “it always knows ... the flavor of fruit..."

This time, Benedek made a fist and pounded on the door, calling, “Doris? Janice? It's Walt.” He turned an ear to the door.

“And
you'll
find the flavor of fruit in every bite..."

Benedek turned the doorknob. The door unlatched and opened a crack. A cold spot bloomed like a flower in Benedek's stomach. Doris seemed to have a new lock installed on the door every month and she
never
left them unlatched, even so early in the day.

After a moment of hesitation, Benedek pushed open the door and stepped inside. From the doorway, he could see half of the television set in the living room at the end of the short hall. Before the television he saw two feet in furry white slippers, two bare legs lying very still, and around them splashes of reddish brown on the creamy carpet.

“Oh God, Doris?” he called, nearly a shout, as he rushed down the hall, leaving the door open behind him. When he rounded the corner, he saw his sister lying face-up on the floor. Her blood was dark and crusty on the carpet around her.

Benedek's palm slapped over his mouth as he retched, then swallowed and gasped several times to keep from vomiting. He staggered forward and got down on one knee beside his sister's body. Then the other knee. Then one hand. He reached the other hand out to touch her, but couldn't.

“Oh, dear Jesus, sis? Sissy?” he croaked.

Her robe was open and her nightgown
—
silk, dark blue, very matronly
—
was torn nearly all the way down the front exposing her flesh, which was now marble white. Her mouse-brown hair was tangled and stringy with blood. Her eyes and mouth were open wide. So was her throat. The flesh had been torn open, clearly exposing blood, gristle, and her trachea. It looked like a garden hose that had been chewed in two by a dog. Her flesh had been torn open all the way down to her chest and pinkish-white bone showed through the drying blood. Her hands were the worst. The fingers of one hand were tangled in the tendons that ran along her neck and the fingers of the other were clutching her left clavicle, like a choking man trying to pull away the tight collar of his shirt.

“Oh, Christ, sis...” His tears fell freely onto her body and his big shoulders shuddered with quiet sobs. He sat up suddenly, scrambled to his feet, gasping, “Janice!” He said the name softly at first, then roared
"Jaaah-nice!"
as he bounded across the living room and into the kitchen.