Live Girls (23 page)

Macy's eye sockets were empty and his fingernails were blackened.

It made no sense; he'd died less than a minute before, but looked like he'd been dead for weeks.

Benedek spun around, knowing he would vomit if he didn't get away from the smell.

He knew he couldn't go out the way he'd come in; they would be waiting for him. In fact, they'd probably be sending someone into the room any moment.

Benedek looked around the room frantically. At the other end was another door; when he looked through it, he found a small storeroom. Boxes were stacked neatly against the walk and there was a high window across from him. He stepped inside, closed and locked the door, then hefted a few of the boxes, one at a time, until he found one that was packed solid. He put it beneath the window, stepped up, and struggled with the latch. It loosened, and he pushed the window open.

He fell to the pavement in an alley outside. Wincing and panting from exertion, he got up, ran down the alley, and hurried around the corner of the building.

Three women were climbing out of a cab, laughing and chattering. He wanted to tell them to stay as far away from the Midnight Club as they could, but he knew they would think he was crazy. Running a hand through his thick hair, he waited for them to leave the cab, wishing the cold night air would take the clinging, putrid smell of death from his nostrils.

When the women were gone, Benedek got into the cab and snapped the address of his apartment loudly through the transparent partition.

Once the cab was moving, Benedek tried to calm himself, knowing Jackie would be upset if he came home in such a state. He leaned his head back and rubbed his eyes, breathing deeply. Then it hit him. His head jerked up and he stared openmouthed out the windshield of the cab, not seeing what was ahead but, instead, the face of Cedric, the tall waiter in the club.

Those deep eyes, that cocky smile, and, most importantly, the scar on his neck, all fell together in Benedek's head.

“Shit on a stick,” he muttered, leaning forward and banging on the partition. “Driver! Take me to the
New York Times. Hurry!"

B
Y THE TIME THE
L
IBRIUM HAD SETTLED FULLY INTO
Davey's bones, he was lying naked in bed drifting in and out of a murky, restless sleep. Occasionally, he opened his heavy-lidded eyes and looked at the clock radio only to find that minutes had passed when it had felt like hours.

He rolled away from the clock with a deep sigh and closed his eyes again. His mother came to him in his sleep. She wore her Sunday best and smelled of cocoa butter hand lotion. Clutching her old ragged-edged Bible to her breasts, she leaned forward to speak to him but could only make a strangled gagging sound. She spit up a half-chewed lump of blood-flecked meat. It landed beside Davey on the bed where it began to pulsate quietly.

“Remember, Davey,” she said hoarsely, “no matter who you fall in love with, no matter how right it seems, she'll hurt you. That's the way love is."

He wanted to scream at her, to curse her, but he couldn't speak up.

She leaned closer to him and he saw that her lips were blue and puffy. “Jesus is the
only
medicine,” she said. Turning from the bed, she sang off-key at the top of her lungs as she left the room. “There's power in the blood, power in the blood..."

When she was gone, he looked down at the piece of meat to find his old dog Brat lying beside him. White, fat worms moved sluggishly in the animal's split-open stomach.

Davey grimaced, sickened. He was confused. The smell that came from the scruffy corpse was the same as it had been on that hot summer day so many years ago, but something about it seemed pleasant. Inviting...

As his stomach gurgled hungrily, Davey lowered his hand, trembling, until his fingertips touched the sticky edge of the gash. Then his hand slid into the squirming mass of maggots. His hand was swallowed by the moist warmth; the movement of the worms tingled against his skin. He wriggled his fingers a bit, then pulled his hand out. Flecks of dark, bloody meat clung to his fingers and he raised his hand to his open mouth.

Davey awoke suddenly and found himself chewing on his pillow. His tongue felt like a thick strip of leather. The sheets were damp with his sweat. Looking at the clock again, he saw it was a quarter of ten. He was supposed to be at Anya's.

Even if he were physically able to go, he told himself he wouldn't. He
couldn't
. Whatever she was doing to him had to stop. And whatever she
was
...

Those pictures had been yellowed and blurred with age, and yet Anya had been as beautiful as ever, her skin just as unblemished, her breasts just as firm today at the age of...

How old was she? Surely she wasn't old enough to have been in those pictures. The reviews must have been referring to her mother...

The window shade was up and the glow of a street-lamp rose from the sidewalk below. It was raining again. Raindrops pattered against the pane, and as Davey drifted off again, the sound incorporated itself into his dream in the form of white empty shoes that tap-danced on darkness...

Voices spoke to him softly over the tapping.

You have no spine
...

...
by the short and curlies
...

She'll hurt you. That's the way love is
...

Scratching ... scratching ... Mice in the walls?

Davey turned his head toward the window and gasped.

Anya smiled at him through the wet glass. As if she were underwater, her long black hair floated around her head. She smiled as she pressed her palms to the window.

Can't be
, Davey thought.
Nine floors up
...

She ran her nails down the glass with a harsh grating sound, leaving behind long scratches as she silently mouthed his name:

Daaaaveeeeyyy
...

Her smile broadened and she opened her mouth wide. Snakelike fangs caught the light like small knives.

“Oh, Jesus, Jesus,” Davey gasped, closing his eyes, but instead of comforting darkness, the backs of his eyelids flickered with grainy yellow images of Anya, images from decades ago, images that couldn't possibly be.

When he opened his eyes again, he could see that she was naked. Her breasts rose above the bottom edge of the window.

Daaaveeey,
she mouthed, her perfect lips sliding over the deadly teeth,
let meee iiinnn
. Her nails scratched against the pane, cutting trails in the glass.

She'll cut right through
, he thought,
Jesus Christ, she'll cut right through it!

“Leave me alone!” he croaked, trying to sit up in the bed. “Stay away from me!"

Her lips moved again:
It's toooo late
...

Floating gracefully in the mist, she rose until he could see her belly, her thighs, her knees. She slowly spread her legs and touched the patch of black hair and ran two fingertips along her pink, glistening lips...

As if he were in the booth again, watching her through the smudged glass, Davey slowly became erect. A deep warmth spread through his body as he sat up on the edge of the mattress.

Anya smiled at him as she touched herself.

It's just a dream,
he thought as he stood on weak legs.
It's impossible so it has to be a dream, I'm sick and I have a fever and I'm dreaming
...

He pressed the heels of his palms to the sash and opened the window. In a rush of rain and icy air, Anya's arms were around him and her lips were brushing his cheeks, his ears, his throat as she whispered, “You didn't come to me, Davey, so I came to
you."

Their bodies tangled together on the bed and Davey lost himself inside her.

Benedek raced around the desks in the city room on the way to his small office in the back.

“Hey, Walter!” someone called. “Thought you were on vacation."

Sal Burkett fell into step beside Benedek. He was small and wiry with long blond hair. He was a staff photographer, but in the three years Burkett had been at the
Times,
Benedek had never seen him carrying a camera. Nor had Benedek ever seen him without a wad of bubble gum in his mouth.

“I am on vacation,” Benedek said, a bit winded, “but I missed the place so much, I had to come in and look around."

“You okay?” Burkett asked, following Benedek into the small office. “You look like you just caught the pope beating off."

Benedek sat down at his desk and faced his computer terminal, lighting a cigarette.

“You know I don't bother with that small-time stuff anymore, Sal. Carlysle in?"

“Left a couple hours ago. What's up?” Burkett blew a large pink bubble; it popped and left behind it a sugary smell.

“Need some info, that's all.” Benedek typed in STABBING/PIMP and started to add a month, but paused, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

“Maybe I can help you,” Burkett said, stepping behind Benedek and peering over his shoulder.

Benedek's chair squeaked as he leaned back and puffed on his cigarette.

Looking at the screen, Burkett said, “Looking for a dead pimp, huh?"

“I'm not sure he's a pimp, but I'm pretty sure he's dead."

“Well, it's not like it's a rare thing in this city, you know. Dead pimps, I mean.” He chuckled. “Those're the best kind. When did it happen?"

“Not sure of that, either. Maybe, uh, April? May? I remember seeing a picture of the guy. Hispanic. Cocky looking. I think he was found in a trash bin just off of, um..."

“Broadway?"

Benedek blinked up at the younger man. “Yeah."

“Stabbed in the neck?"

“That's the one. You gotta good memory, Burkett."

“Not really,” he said, standing beside Benedek and leaning toward the computer. His thin fingers clattered over the keys as he said, “The reason I remember this one is that it was kinda weird."

“How so?"

Burkett backed away from the computer and a brief article flashed on the screen in amber print.

“Holy shit,” Benedek breathed.

The body of Cedric Palacios, a convicted pimp found stabbed to death Thursday, was stolen from the Bellevue morgue this morning. The thief's Motive and method of entering remain a mystery. With no sign of a break-in and...

Perching himself on the corner of the desk, Burkett studied Benedek's face with interest.

“Hey, Walter, you on to something?"

Benedek shook his head slowly without taking his eyes from the screen. “They ever catch the killer?” he asked.

Burkett popped another bubble. “Nope. Doubt anybody cares. I mean, the guy was a
pimp
, you know?"

“You remember anything unusual about his death?"

“Well, let's see.” He got off the desk and turned to the computer again. In a moment, the piece reporting Cedric Palacios's murder appeared. Benedek read it quickly.

The knife wound had not been fatal. It had missed the jugular and Palacios might have lived.

If he hadn't bled to death.

The authorities assumed Palacios had been killed elsewhere, then moved to the trash bin because there had been so little blood around the body.

“Walter, you don't look so good,” Burkett said quietly. “You okay?"

“Just out of curiosity, Sal ... have you heard of anyone else dying like this? Bleeding to death, I mean?"

Burkett's face brightened. “You
are
on to something, Walter. You gonna need pictures?"

A long ash dropped from the end of Benedek's cigarette as he continued staring at the screen.

“Close the door on your way out, Sal."

“Oh. Okay.” He went to the door, turned, and said, “By the way, Walter, I'm really sorry about your
—
"

“See you in about ten days, Sal."

“Yeah. See you.” He closed the door quietly as he left.

Benedek pressed his dying cigarette into the bottom of the ashtray and lit another.