Play Dead (41 page)

'All in good time,' he said. 'But don't you understand? It's over. I'm leaving.'

'Great. Nice knowing you. Bye.'

Stan smiled, his red eyes trying to focus in on hers. 'Aren't you forgetting one small detail?'

'Such as?'

'Gloria.'

'What about her?'

He shrugged, nearly toppling from the effort. 'She loves me, you know. I can let her down nice and easy. Tell her how I'm not good enough for her and all that bullshit. Or I can crush her, tell her that I was just using her, that's she's nothing but a useless whore.'

Laura let the rage build inside her but her face remained calm. 'If you do that,' she said evenly, 'I'll kill you. I swear it.'

'Threats, Laura? You should know better than that.'

'What do you want, Stan? I thought you said you didn't need money anymore. And why the hell were you acting so weird at the game?'

'Patience, my lovely flower. You are indeed correct. I do not need your money.'

'Then why don't you just leave my sister in peace?'

'Nothing would please me more. But life is not that easy. First, you must do something for me.' Stan grabbed her by the shoulders, turning her body so that they faced one another.

'What?' she asked.

He smiled. 'I want you to sleep with me. Just once. Do me that one little favor and I won't harm your sister.'

As Laura felt herself begin to gag, she realized that to an onlooker she and Stan appeared to be just a happy, good-looking couple. They were both smiling, facing one another, Stan standing close with his hands on her shoulders. Appearance vs. reality. People were probably smiling sweetly at them, commenting on what a nice couple they made . . .

... but right now, Laura was looking at Mark Seidman and he did not appear to be smiling. For the first time that evening, Mark Seidman's cool exterior had cracked. Laura was puzzled. Mark Seidman stood behind Stan, glaring at them, his face twisted into a look of intense hatred.

Why?

'Well,' Stan said, his breath reeking from liquor, 'I'm waiting.'

Laura's eyes swung back to his. 'You're drunk.'

'That fact has already been established,' he replied. 'I'm still waiting for an answer.'

'How about this? Go to hell.'

Stan shook his head. 'You're not being smart, Laura. Really you're not. You should think this through first.'

'Think this through, Stan: you are the most repulsive creature I have ever met. I hate you.'

'Do you know why you hate me?'

'Do you want the list in any particular order?'

He laughed. His feet shuffled underneath him, allowing him to maintain his balance. 'Laura, why don't you stop deceiving yourself? Admit to yourself at least why you hate me.'

'Okay, Stan, I'll bite. Why do I hate you?'

'It's because you find me attractive,' he said, spittle flying with his words. 'Very attractive. You want me, Laura. You want me very badly. And that makes you feel guilty. It makes you feel like you're being disloyal to David. So how do you compensate for that? You create this ugly illusion, an illusion you're able to hate.'

'You're sick, Stan,' Laura shot back. 'When I first saw you with Gloria tonight, I was actually stupid enough to think that maybe you did give a half a damn about her. But I won't ever forget the truth, Stan. I won't ever forget you're a piece of shit.'

His smile did not waver. 'Yes, but a piece of shit who is going to have his way with you.'

'Not a chance.'

'Ah, Laura, you're using emotion again. Didn't I warn you about that? Pretend this is a business decision. If you sleep with me tonight, I'm gone forever. I will be nothing but a pleasant memory for Gloria. If you don't, I'll destroy her. Think about it, Laura. What is Gloria's life worth to you? Does she matter so little that you wouldn't sacrifice your widow-virginity for her?'

Laura said nothing.

Stan's smirk of satisfaction raked across her heart painfully. 'I see you're starting to think about this practically. That's smart, Laura. Just one quick boff and I'm history. You can even close your eyes if you want. And of course, if your lovely bod decides it can't just have Stan for one night, that it craves more of what I have, I'll stay with you for a while. We'll make it our little secret.'

Laura swallowed away her nausea, not believing what she was about to say. 'What guarantee do I have you will actually leave?'

Stan smiled. He had her. 'You don't trust me?'

'Not at all.'

'Well, you're going to have to, my love,' he explained. 'Life is a gamble. You'll have to make your choice and live with it. But either way, I'm leaving tomorrow. So if you find Gloria in the bathroom with her arteries bursting blood, you know you made the wrong decision.'

Across the room, Laura spotted Gloria. Her sister began to walk toward them.

'I'll meet you at your place at midnight,' Stan whispered.

Laura watched him stagger toward her sister. Gloria looked so beautiful, so happy, so delicate, eyeing Stan worriedly as he stumbled his way toward her. She is concerned for his welfare, Laura thought, concerned about that no-good son of a bitch. And Laura could do nothing about it. She was powerless against him and right now that meant just one thing.

Laura turned away. David was already dead. She had arrived too late to save him from the clutches of the Pacific or a still unknown murderer. But Gloria was still with her, still alive.

And Laura still had the opportunity to save her.

Anger glazed Mark's eyes as he glared at Laura and Stan. He still could not believe it. Stan. Stan was here in Boston. Why the hell hadn't T.C. told him? But the answer was obvious. Now that David Baskin was dead, Mark Seidman was to be told nothing.

A familiar voice snapped him out of his semi-trance. 'Excuse me.'

Mark swiveled his head toward a tall woman with auburn hair. Judy Simmons. He had figured Judy was going to show up for this event, and that made him very afraid. Laura's aunt was no fool and, more to the point, Mark was sure that she was the only person who had any real chance of discovering what had really happened to David Baskin.

'Yes, Miss . . .' he feigned forgetting her name.

'Simmons,' Judy finished for him. 'Judy Simmons. I'm Laura Baskin's aunt.'

'Yes, of course.'

She scrutinized him closely, spending a long time on his face. 'I just wanted to say, Mr Seidman, that you played a wonderful game tonight.'

'Thank you.'

'Where did you learn to play like that?'

Mark shrugged. 'Nowhere special. Around.'

'Well you play like no rookie I've ever seen.' She stopped, her eyes narrowing. 'You look very familiar to me, Mr Seidman. Have we met before?'

'I don't believe so.'

'Funny, I know I've seen you somewhere,' she continued. 'Were you ever on the campus of Colgate College?'

'No.'

'Maybe I knew your mother. Yes, that's it. Seidman, Seidman. Even the name rings a bell.'

'My mother died a good number of years ago.'

Once again, Judy studied his face. She had seen his reaction at Laura's conversing with Stan Baskin, but this time, his expression remained composed. 'I'm sorry.'

'Will you excuse me, ma'am?'

Judy simply stared at him, saying nothing. Her eyes did not wander off his face as he smiled weakly, nodded, and moved toward the exit.

It can't be, she told herself. Just calm yourself down. Mark Seidman is just another amazing sports story. That's all. Stop making something out of nothing.

But she knew it was not true.

Stan stumbled down the empty hallway at the Boston Garden and into the abandoned men's room on the top floor. He had been drunk plenty of times before, plenty, but man, did he feel out of control and sick tonight. His head spun like a 78 on an old victrola. His mouth felt like someone had poured sand down his throat. And his stomach, his goddamn stomach felt like a training ground for grenade launchers.

He looked at himself in the mirror, fear clutching his neck and throat. There was more than just booze working on his head, his mouth, his stomach. He had never been so terrified in all of his life, and yet an opportunity had sprung forward that exhilarated him. Money. All he wanted. All he needed. It was right in front of him now. He would ask for one hundred grand right off the bat and then cash in on new installments whenever he deemed it necessary. He could have everything he ever wanted if . . .

... if he would only shake hands with the devil.

Stan staggered away from the mirror. Sometimes he was such an idiot, especially when it came to Laura. When was he going to learn to keep his big mouth under control? Christ, he was drunk. Maybe he should apologize for what he said, but no, that would do no good. Laura would just spit on him. Why did he always do things like that? Why did he always slide backwards into his darkened, vile pit whenever he was one step away from getting out of it for good? He had drunk too much, seen Laura, and wham, his lust for vengeance on David rose up in him. Why? The poor guy was dead now. Why in the face of Laura's awesome beauty did his old hatred always emerge anew?

He unzipped his fly in front of the urinal. The truth was he did not want to leave quite yet. He could have the money and keep Gloria -- though it could get a little messy. After all, the source of his money supply was a member of her family.

Yes, blackmail was on his mind, plain and simple. But this was no ordinary blackmail scheme. He was not planning on blackmailing an ordinary wrongdoer.

He was going to blackmail his father's murderer.

Stan grabbed onto the sides of the urinal and steadied himself. Sweat made his clothes cling to his skin uncomfortably. After all these years he had finally seen his father's killer again. Most sons would cry for blood against such a demon. They would demand biblical justice, an eye for an eye, death. But not Stan. Too many years had passed to play vengeful gunslinger and frankly, Stan was gutless in the ways of violence, always had been. He could report it to the police, but who would believe him? Who would trust the word of a man who waited thirty years to let anyone know that he had witnessed his father's murder? And with his police record? No way. Forget it.

No, Stan decided, he would have to wreak his own type of vengeance against the killer of his happy childhood. He would let the murderer live in constant fear of being discovered -- and make a nice profit for himself in the process.

A rush of nausea swept through him. Sure as God made green apples he was going to vomit. No doubt about it. He hated throwing up but then again, who likes it? It had to be done. Best to get it over with. Besides, maybe he'd feel better after sacrificing a few of those Molotov cocktails to the porcelain gods.

He wove toward the stall, his right shoulder ramming against the metallic side. If he were sober, Stan undoubtedly would have noticed the throbbing pain in his shoulder blade. Fortunately, the alcohol snuffed it out. Stan dropped to his knees, clutched the cold toilet on either side and waited.

That was when he felt someone grab him by the hair.

'What the -- ?'

The rest of his words were lost in the icy water. Whoever had grabbed him was strong. Stan's face lunged forward into the toilet bowl, crashing into the bottom. He could no longer breathe. Panicked, he shook his head back and forth violently, but he could not get free from the vise-like grip, could not find an air-pocket so that he could gather even one more breath into his heaving chest.

'You son of a bitch!'

Stan could barely make out the words being shouted at him, the toilet water splashing against his ears. I'm going to die, he thought. I'm going to drown in a fuckin' toilet.

His lungs were ready to burst. Water seeped down his throat. He felt himself choke. His eyes bulged. Thoughts flew out of his mind, replaced by primitive instinct. One primitive instinct. The instinct of survival. He became like any other mammal trapped underwater and unable to breathe. He jerked and bucked and kicked out, but the hand on his head held him down. The assailant shoved Stan's face further into the water, crushing his nose against the hard bottom of the bowl. Stan saw his own blood flow past him.

His throat burned. His eyes rolled into the back of his head. Death. Drowning. Like David. Is this what it was like, little brother? Is this . . . ?

The powerful grip pulled Stan's head out of the water and dropped it like an inanimate object. His skull bounced off the porcelain seat and crashed onto the tile floor, but Stan did not notice or care. He gasped and wretched uncontrollably, his hand wrapped around his throat in some bizarre attempt to lessen the pain. He rolled on the floor, desperately trying to put some oxygen back into his sore lungs.

Then he felt the hand clutch his hair again.

'Oh God, please,' he managed.

The hand roughly jerked his head back toward the rim of the bowl. It began to push his face downward, stopping less than an inch above the water. Stan's chest still heaved spasmodically.

'No, please . . .'

Stan felt the assailant lower himself toward him, the hold never loosening. Warm breath pricked Stan's ear and neck. 'If you ever go near her again,' the male voice said slowly, 'I'll kill you.'