Shivers (7 page)

He got the jar of coffee from the cupboard and spooned it into the cup. Then he sat down at the little table in the corner and waited.

Who was he kidding? He really wasn’t up to walking the streets in this godforsaken area at this hour in search of some drunk who had probably long since disappeared. And yet, it was something by all rights he should do. The man had had “talent,” that was undeniable. But how could Mr. Proper, always sober Eric Thorne, manage to deal with a disgusting drunk, sensitive or not? He looked at the coffee jar, rolling back and forth in his hands, and had to smile.

He had been with the Institute for ten years. They did everything from testing people for extrasensory perception to holding seminars on out-of-the-body sexual encounters. Their job was to explore the paranormal, and to investigate the vast, unspoken possibilities of life beyond mortal ken. The spirit world. Alternate realities and dimensions. Telepathy. Telekinesis. Under one roof there were many experts in the field of psychic research. As well as volunteers. Quite a few were genuine “sensitives”—those with certain abilities which separated them from “ordinary” men and women. Eric Thorne’s specialty was extrasensory awareness—any ability which indicated that one was sensitive to stimuli not included in the five normal senses. Mind reading. Thought transference. It was a fascinating field, and one that Thorne would forever be a part of. For he himself was one of the greatest “mind readers” in the world.

The thought of it used to scare him. No longer. Now he was proud. Fiercely proud. And dedicated to discovering the reasons for his having such special gifts. Dedicated to seeking out and helping those who were like him. That’s why he had to find that derelict, that drunkard, who had so far abused his power instead of
using
it. Thorne felt new determination. No matter what the risk, he must find him. He would just have to guard against the powerful,
evil
thoughts that he’d picked up before. Thoughts which he now assumed had not come directly from the man, but rather from other sources which had
affected him.
Thorne was anxious to find the answers to the mysteries that his chance—or had it been a chance?— encounter had revealed.

He poured the boiling water into the cup, where it dissolved the crystals of freeze-dried instant coffee. He added some cream from the refrigerator,-and one teaspoon of sugar from a bowl on the table. He stirred it all slowly, waiting for it to cool. He was still hesitant about going out there again, out into the unfriendly darkness. He started to drink, trying to overcome his apprehension. It wasn’t easy.

Finally the cup was drained. He got up, made sure that the hot plate had been turned off, then switched out the light and went back into the hallway. He walked down the corridor, flicking its light off.

And stepped out into the night.

Lina Hobler rolled over in bed and blinked furiously, trying to adjust to the lack of light. She got up, dragging the blanket with her, and turned on the lightswitch. Her mouth was dry, her tongue coated with a smelly paste. She looked in the mirror and cringed. Her hair was flying out in all directions, and the bags under her eyes were more pronounced than ever. Her face was so lined it looked like a map of Europe. She opened a bottle of mouthwash, gargled, and spit out a thick mixture of saliva and mint.

She was still a bit woozy from the afternoon’s drinking. It was happening more and more these days, these desperate plunges into the bottle. It was half empty now—on the kitchen table, a cheap brand of whiskey. The glass had been discarded after the first two drinks. It was lying on the floor, cracked in two places.

Her boyfriend hadn’t been home for days. It often happened. He’d go off somewhere—she never knew where—and then return with plenty of money and a small bouquet of flowers. She was always charmed enough not to scold. Normally these periods when she was left alone rarely lasted more than a day or so. But this period had gone on much too long. Lina could usually control her drinking, though she’d always been at it heavily. Left to her own devices, however, she could sometimes go overboard.

It was too much to deal with. Never knowing if Brock was alive or dead, coming back or gone for good. They’d been living together now for almost five years, and she should have been used to these episodes. But it was tough, real tough. Like never knowing when you’re coming or going. She called these periods her “upside-down” phases.

Often she wondered if Brock had left her for another woman. Sure, he was nothing much to look at either. But he
was
a big, well-hung hunk of man, and he took good care of her when he had the dough. A far cry from a feminist, Lina was positive the only way a woman could live was to let a man support her. Even twenty years ago, when she had had enough money to buy New York, she’d let men handle her business affairs. That’s why she was now living in a shithole in the borough of Queens, which might just as well have been Outer Mongolia as far as she was concerned.

The main man in her life when she had been
Miss
Lina Hobler, songstress supreme, singing star of America, Grand Diva of the night clubs and the air waves and the record shops, was Arnie Molleran, her manager, accountant, advisor, and live-in lover. Arnie took care of her, all right. The “investments” that he made with her money went straight to the race track and the gambling tables, never to the stockbroker. When Lina’s career plummeted in 1962—the lowest spot in her life—she turned to Arnie and asked him for some of that financial security that he had always told her she could count on when things got rough. Alas, there wasn’t any. First it was Lina’s jewelry, then her furs, then her cottage in the Hamptons, then her sailboat, then her townhouse, and finally it was Arnie. All of it gone. When the money went, when the job offers stopped, when Lina was too plastered to even perform, when everything she owned was in hock, she felt that she could at least count on Molleran’s love. No dice. She woke up one morning to find a note on the pillow next to hers:

Goodbye, babe. It’s been nice. But we got to make it on our own now. Love, Arnie.

She had cried for three days straight. Drunk for three weeks. Then her life turned into a
real
Grade-B movie. She managed to live on loans from former fans and friends. Once she even tried a comeback, but muffed it when she showed up for a TV appearance two weeks after the show had been taped—bombed, of course. She fled from her apartment in New York late one night, owing seven months’ back rent. A friend of hers paid the first three months rent for an inexpensive flat in Woodside, with a warning that there would be no more handouts forthcoming. Lina gave up the bottle for awhile, got a job as a waitress in a burger joint around the corner, and responded to remarks such as “Do you know who you look just like?” with a weary “Everyone says so,” or “I used to be Rin Tin Tin.” Of course, she used an assumed name: Rona Wordsworth. She had figured that she’d cash her checks by flirting, and eventually fucking, with the man who worked behind the sinister grilled counter in the check-cashing joint. But it turned out she was paid off the books, so there was no problem; she was always paid in cash.

She met Brock in a bar late one Wednesday evening and it was lust at first sight. Their first time in bed together she told him who she really was, and he said that he had known it all along. He offered to take care of her. Poor Lina should have known better by then. But she let him move in with her, and he took care of the rent and everything else. She quit her waitress job and thought she finally had it made.

The first time Brock pulled his disappearing act she really panicked. Her drinking got so bad that one night at Barney’s Bar and Grill she did an impromptu striptease, slapped around another woman who made fun of her body, and even threw a bottle at the barman. She wound up sleeping it off in the can. Brock later explained that he needed periods away to get extra money, but wouldn’t volunteer more information. Lina knew that he worked at a factory, and already had a steady paycheck, but she was so glad for the gifts and conveniences that the “extra” money brought her, she never particularly cared where it came from. She figured maybe Brock was mixed up in a mild way with the rackets, that he needed time away from his clinging parmour now and then just to have some breathing room. But he’d always come back.

Until now.

Lina sat down in front of the mirror and cried, sure that he had left her due to her fading sex appeal. She was fifty years old, much too heavy, and what had once been her beautiful blond hair was now pale and stringy. She hated to go outdoors during the daytime. The super’s ugly children and their neighborhood friends always laughed at her, taunted her, called her disgusting names. Little brats. Kids had always made fun of her, even when she’d been a child herself. They’d been jealous of her angelic face and silken hair and the way the adults treated her. They were cruel and sinister, evil little midget monsters. She often had nightmares of being totally at their mercy. The bastards.

What would become of her? she wondered. What would become of her?

Her excursion into self-pity land was shattered by a knock on the door. Brock? It had to be!
Silly thing, crying your heart out all for nothing.
She wiped her eyes and ran to open the door, not caring that she was only dressed in a torn and filthy slip.

It wasn’t Brock. Two rough-looking characters forced their way into the room before she could close the door on them.

“Where is he?” the shorter man said, a nasty-looking character with a rodent’s face and a cigar jutting out of his mouth.

“Brock?” she asked. “Is that who you’re looking for?”

“That’s right!” the other fellow said, a tall, rather handsome blond man with a well-built body and thick-lensed glasses.

“He’s not around. He hasn’t been here for days.” She wished she had taken the time to put on a robe. She felt so ugly in front of these two strangers, both of them looking her up and down as if she was naked.

The little guy laughed. “What did I tell ya?”

“How long has he been away
this
time?” the blond man asked.

“For
days,
I told you. Why? What is it? Is something wrong?”

“No. If he comes by just tell him that Jake and Eddie were here to see him.”

“Do you know where he is?” Lina asked, grabbing her robe from off the closet doorknob.

“If we did, we wouldn’t be here, lady.”

“All right!” she shouted, pissed that these two creeps who had invaded her privacy had no word from her man. “Then get out of here. There’s nothing I can do for you.”

“Watch your mouth, puss,” the ratman said, holding out his hand toward her face as if he was planning to squeeze it. “You just tell your boyfriend that we were here. Then forget it, okay?”

“I will. Now get out!”

The two men glared at her for a few seconds, then started to laugh. They left, slamming the door behind them. Lina muttered “shit-faces” and threw the robe on the floor. She took off the slip and went into the bathroom. She stepped into the shower and turned on the water, letting it cover her body, soak through her hair, slosh around inside her mouth. Wonderful,
wonderful,
warm water. She got out, toweled herself dry, and changed into fresh clothes. She brushed her teeth, properly this time, and applied a thick coat of make up. She couldn’t stay here alone anymore. She grabbed her purse, checked to make sure that she had enough money, and left the apartment.

She hoped the super’s kids were in school— or dead, preferably. She had triumphed over her evil playmates once before—they’d had to see her mug on record albums and TV shows and know that
she,
the pretty little girl they’d all made fun of, had grown up to be somebody while they were nowhere rotting. But now? Now, she thought, the little monsters had it all over her. They’d dance on her grave when she was dead and never know that once she’d been a star.

She was out in the hall waiting for the elevator when the phone rang. She was back inside on the fourth ring.

“Hello.”

The voice that answered gave her the absolute ever-lovin’ creeps. A man’s voice. A frightened voice in spite of its scary resonance.

“Is this Lina?” he asked.

“Yes. Yes, I’m Lina. Who is this?”

“Never mind. I have information. About Brock.”

“What?
Where is he?”

“No. Not on the phone. You’ll have to meet me.” He paused. “Someone might be watching you.”

“Who? Who’s watching me?” Those two men? she wondered. No. They looked too dumb to be keeping an eye on anyone.

“I said not on the phone. I’ll give you an address.”

She got paper and pen. She jotted down the location.

“I’ll come right now,” she said.

“No. Not now. Tomorrow evening. Nine o’clock. And not before.”

“Why can’t I see you tonight?” she said, wanting to plead, wanting to get down on her knees and beg.

“I can’t explain. Tomorrow. Don’t be late.”

“But . . .”

He hung up.

She put down the receiver and let out an exasperated sigh.

Boy, she sure could use a drink now.

THREE

E
RIC
T
HORNE HAD
arrived home at his apartment on the Upper East Side at one o’clock in the morning. Exhausted, he had gulped down a glass of juice and two aspirins, raised the heat five degrees, and collapsed into bed.

His search had been fruitless. Walking up and down deserted streets, turning abruptly at the slightest sound, trying to see if someone was following him. At times he’d felt as if he was being tracked, hunted down, by some unseen presence walking behind him a step out of sync. He’d whirl around to face his invisible pursuer, only to see nothing, no one there at all. It was a terribly disquieting feeling, that uneasy suspicion that something was constantly stepping out of his sightline just as he revolved to confront it. Insane, but real. Frighteningly real.