Live Girls (36 page)

Shideh had not returned to check on her. Casey wondered when Davey would come,
if
he would come.

The door opened and someone came in, someone tall, and carrying something in its arms. The door closed again.

“Who's there?” she asked, sitting up.

“Cedric.” He stepped into the yellow glow of the candle and Casey saw that he was carrying a woman. She wore a nightgown and her white hair hung down over the man's arm and swayed back and forth with each of his steps.

“Where's Shideh?” Casey asked.

“She's working at the club right now."

Club?
Casey thought.

“What time is it?” she asked.

“Little after two.” The man moved to the trapdoor. “Stay back,” he said to her as he put the woman on the floor. He pulled the bolts on the door and lifted it. The woman at his feet stirred and sighed.

The man was wearing a tuxedo.

“Who is that?” she asked, nodding toward the woman who was now trying to sit up.

Cedric gave her a disapproving glance, as if to say she was asking too many questions. With one fluid movement, he lifted the door and shoved the woman through with his foot, letting the door fall shut.

The sound of the woman's body tumbling beneath the door was immediately followed by a chorus of grunting and smacking, and, briefly, the woman's screams.

Cedric smiled down at Casey. “They don't get to feed off live ones very often,” he said happily. He used his foot to bolt the door again, then turned and left the room, chuckling.

When the sun came up, it was more visible than it had been in the past few days, shining infrequently through breaks in the clouds that darkened most of the sky.

Walking from the bus stop, he saw the Target Guns sign a few yards up the block. He kept his left hand in his coat pocket. It had gotten a bit worse during the night. Now the fingers were thin bony sticks with fat, arthritic-looking knuckles. The skin had lightened to a grayish, dead tone. Davey could not stand to look at it for more than a few seconds. It was
not
his hand; when he held it up, it seemed he was looking at something from a novelty store. He couldn't move the fingers or thumb; three of the fingers had no feeling at all. Touching the fingers was like touching beef jerky.

Davey wondered if his hand would continue to shrivel up until it just dangled by the wrist, a wrinkled, wasted piece of meat and decayed bone.

He kept it in his pocket at all times, ashamed of it, even a little afraid of it. It was a visible reminder of what he'd become and of the weakness within him that had gotten him there.

It was 10:35 when Davey walked into Target Guns.

A moose head was mounted on the far wall facing the door. Below it were several pictures of hunters with their kills.

There were guns everywhere. Guns on the walls, in glass display cases, handguns in velvet-lined oak boxes.

There were shelves of ammunition of all kinds, gun cases and sheaths, and gun-cleaning paraphernalia.

Standing behind the register was a barrel-chested man talking on the phone. Curls of his thick gray hair fell on his creased forehead. His cheeks were rosy and his jaw square and firm. His arms were big, mostly fat now, but Davey could tell that, at one time, they had been rock-hard muscle. The hand that held the telephone receiver was big and square-shaped and his forearm was hairy. The man was a bear, but there was a smiling twinkle in his gray eyes that took the edge off his size.

“Look, I gotta customer just walked in,” he said into the phone. “I'll have to call you back. But don't decide until I talk to you again, okay? Later.” He hung up the phone and cracked a broad smile at Davey. “Hello, there,” he boomed. “What can I do ya for?"

“Morris?"

“You got him."

“Davey Owen.” He held out his hand, smiling.

"Wellll."
Morris laughed, pumping Davey's hand enthusiastically. “That's my boy, finally decided to pay a visit, huh?"

“Nice to meet you, finally."

“Yeah, yeah. Hey, you wanna little tour of the shop?"

“Sure. But I can't stay long, I'm afraid."

“Gotta get back to the old grind?"

Davey paused, deciding how to go about what he wanted to say. “Well, I don't work at Penn anymore, Morris."

“What? You quit?"

“Yeah. I wasn't going anywhere there. I just...” He shrugged.

Morris swatted him hard on the shoulder and said, “Good boy, good boy. Don't take any shit from nobody. So, what you doing now, kid?"

“Well, nothing at the moment."

“Yeah? Well, don't you worry about that. Jobs are tough to find these days, you know. But you'll be okay. I know, I've been there. When I was a young man, just home from the war
—
dubbayuh-dubbayuh two
—
I didn't know
what
the hell I was gonna do, you know? So I started looking into
—
"

Davey hesitantly interrupted him. “Morris, excuse me, but like I said, I can't stay long."

“Oh, yeah, sure. I run off at the mouth, you let me. So is there anything special you need, or you just being social?"

Davey put his hand on the countertop and said quietly, “I'm in trouble, Morris."

The old man's eyes narrowed and his lips parted as he leaned toward Davey. “Trouble? What kinda trouble, kid?"

“I need a gun."

Morris cocked a brow. “A gun, huh? Well, listen, kid. Guns are great things and I think everybody oughtta have one, but shopping for a gun when you're in some kinda trouble is a little like shopping for groceries when you got the screamin’ hungries, you know what I'm sayin', kid?"

Davey nodded, closing his eyes. “I know, and if you don't want to help me, Morris, I'll understand. But I really need
—
"

“No, wait a sec, here, kid, I
wanna
help you. I just wanna make sure you know what you're doin'."

“That's why I came to you."

Morris squeezed Davey's arm. “Good, kid. I'm glad you did. So. What kinda trouble you in?"

“Sorry, Morris, but I can't go into it."

“Tell me this much. Your life in danger?"

A voice deep inside Davey chuckled.
Not anymore
.

Davey nodded, licking his lips. “A
lot
of lives."

Morris studied Davey's face for a long time, then pushed himself away from the counter. He reached beneath the register and pulled out two canes, took one in each hand, and, using them for support, hobbled along the counter and around the edge. When he walked, his legs made soft clicking sounds. He faced Davey and hit one of his own legs with a cane; it was wooden.

“Lost ‘em in dubbayuh-dubbayuh two,” he said. “So I got these stilts. Better'n nothin', huh?” He crossed the store to the entrance. After locking the door, he reached over to the window and turned the OPEN sign around so that it read CLOSED. “C'mere, kid,” he said, leading Davey through a door beneath the moose head. “Step inside the inner sanctum."

It was a cramped office with a rolltop desk that was cluttered with papers and folders, a few styrofoam cups, and Hostess fruit-pie wrappers. There were pictures on the wall of Morris getting married, Morris in uniform, Morris flanked by a little boy and girl, Morris holding up a fish and smiling proudly.

“You in trouble with the cops?” he asked, leaning his canes against the wall.

“No."

“Not the cops, huh? Then it must be bad. Well, I ain't the nosy type. I won't press it.” He turned to an old wooden filing cabinet and pulled out the top drawer as far as it would go. Reaching into a space behind the file folders, he removed a metal box with a handle on top. He put it on the cabinet and pushed the drawer shut, turning to Davey. “Just let me tell you one thing, kid, and this is important, okay?” When Davey didn't reply, Morris repeated,
"Okay?"

“Yeah, okay."

Morris pointed a finger at Davey. “You never came here, you understand me? You never even met me."

Davey nodded.

“Good. Long as we understand that, we're okay.” He took the metal box from the cabinet, then swept his hand over a corner of the desk, clearing a space in the mess, and set down the box. “A handgun okay?"

“Yes, that's what I need. Something easy to carry."

Morris opened a desk drawer, took out a key, and unlocked the box. Flipping up the lid, he took out a gun and hefted it in his hand. “This,” he said, “is a nine-millimeter Beretta, model ninety-two. Holds fifteen shots in a magazine, easy to carry, quick to load. Powerful little bugger, too. You shoot guns much?"

“I'm afraid not."

“Here, give it a feel.” He tossed the gun to Davey.

Instinctively, Davey pulled his left hand from his coat pocket and held both hands up to catch the gun. He almost dropped it, but clutched it to his chest.

Davey saw Morris's eyes linger on his twisted hand and he quickly stuffed it back in the pocket. He couldn't meet Morris's eyes and kept his head bowed.

“Hey, kid,” the man said softly. “Don't look so embarrassed.” He knocked his knuckles on one of his legs. “Remember? I ain't no perfect specimen either."

Slowly, Davey pulled his hand out of his pocket and held it up.

“They did this to me,” he whispered.

“They? You mean the people you're in trouble with?"

Davey nodded.

“They
did
that to you?"

“Yes."

Morris looked at the hand with narrowed eyes and shook his head. “Jesus. You sure you don't wanna talk about it, Davey?"

“Yeah."

“Okay.” He patted Davey's shoulder encouragingly. “Tell you what. I gotta sixty-foot range downstairs. We'll go down there and fire a few rounds, huh?"

Putting his hand in his pocket again, Davey tried to smile. “Thanks. I really appreciate all this, Morris. I don't ... I don't want to cause you any trouble."

“Trouble?"

“Well, I don't know much about gun laws, but can't this gun be traced back to you?"

“Nope. I know
everything
about gun laws,
have
to in my business, and I always make sure I gotta few untraceable guns around. This is one of ‘em. And
remember
, kid. You didn't. Get it. From
me."

“I know. How much do I owe you?"

The man pulled in his chin and spread his arms. “Kid. We're business associates, ‘member? I'm not gonna take your money for some help.” He tucked in his lower lip and thought a moment. “Just promise me somethin'. I understand you're in trouble and all, pissed off at the sonsabitches done this to you. You wanna protect yourself, maybe protect somebody close to you. But take it from me, kid, don't use that thing unless you absolutely
have
to. You kill somebody, and I don't care
who
it is, you gotta live with it. And that ain't so easy to do."

Davey was touched by the man's concern.

The people I'm going to shoot
, he wanted to say,
are already dead
. But he knew that Morris would think he was crazy and probably wouldn't give him the gun. Davey opted for a half truth.

“Don't worry, Morris,” he said reassuringly. “I don't plan to kill anybody."

“Good boy. Now let's go downstairs and I'll show you how to play with this toy, huh?"

Benedek entered his apartment cautiously, looking behind the door first, then quickly scanning the living room. The apartment reeked of garlic. He was glad. That meant they had probably not come in while he was gone.

Nothing had been moved. There was no sign there had been visitors. He shut the door and locked it, then went into the bathroom.

Jackie had always kept the syringes in the bottom drawer below the sink. She'd been bringing them home now and then since the first year they'd been together. He'd had a spur removed from his foot, and after he got home, Jackie gave him shots of Demerol to kill the pain. When she discovered that the syringes were handy for watering her houseplants, she'd begun bringing them home regularly.

He found a couple in the drawer, along with hypodermic needles in plastic wrappers.