I get a small burst of satisfaction to hear him drop the pretense and revert to his native twang.
“Now, you best be telling me real quick, Richard. What the hell’s the plan?”
I open the door of the apartment and point the knife into the hallway like a highwayman brandishing his sword.
“Stand and deliver.” I finally say softly. “Their money or their lives.”
From below, the pounding on the door has practically tripled in intensity. It’s a strong door, made of solid oak with nice iron hinges if I’m not mistaken. But how long can it hold out? How long until the violence of the street spills into the foyer and then up the stairs to the very threshold of my apartment?
How long indeed….
CHAPTER SIX
I stand on the landing with my heart beating tribal rhythms, whipping me into a blood frenzy that can only be sated with the promise of violence. I feel like my entire life has been building up to this point: all those years imprisoned in the cells of spreadsheets, the pleases and thank yous and May I. The toiling away for all the things I needed, but never coming even close to what I wanted. It had all been a precursor to this very moment, this particular point in time and history. After thirty-four years, I had finally become the man I was meant to be.
Which is more than I can say for the trembling buffoon behind me. He won’t last five minutes in this new world. Not unless he finds himself a stronger ally to attach himself to, not unless he becomes a bitch.
Outside there’s another burst of weapons fire. This sounds like fully automatic machine guns and bullets begin whizzing through the oak door at the bottom of the stairs. They tear through wood and plaster and the pounding noises abruptly come to an end, replaced by a crimson puddle that leaks under the door and spreads across the hallway like an invading cancer.
I’ve come to a realization as I stood here, ready for a battle which never quite made it to me: Ms Cline was right, for all the good it will do her now. I do want Polly.
But not in that sappy, happily-ever-after Disney storybook kind of way. No, I want her like some men want a shiny Cadillac with chrome trim and leather seats. I want her the way a bibliophile needs to have that first edition Kerouac to crown his collection. I want to own this beautiful, nubile, exotic young thing. I want her to be mine. Just like the accountant-looking guy wanted Vin Boucher’s shiny, gold watch.
And isn’t that what this new world is really about? You see something that you want and you take it. No questions. No justifications. No permission. You simply grab it and damn anyone who gets in your way.
I turn around and see that Cody looks as if he’s about to pass out. He’s leaning against the wall and panting like he’s just finished a marathon, shaking from his teeth all the way down to his knees. He’s so pale now that his goatee looks absolutely black in the half-darkness of the hall.
“I say,” he gasps, “that was a close one, wasn’t it? I thought for sure we were done for.”
The damn phony accent again. What the hell did Polly ever see in this loser? Maybe, it was simply a case of second bests. She couldn’t have me because she thought I was so wrapped up in Jane that it would never happen. Hard to believe that, for a long while, I’d believed that myself.
I take two steps and place my left hand on his shoulder.
“Well,” I say slowly, “one of us is.”
“What in blazes are you….”
I shove the chef’s knife into his gut and it feels just like stabbing an overstuffed pillow. He gasps sharply as his eyes grow large and round and his hands wrap around the handle protruding from his belly. Yanking the blade free, it slices through his palms, severing nerves and tendons, and his mouth is moving now like a fish who has been pulled from the river and thrown onto the bank to flounder and die.
I plunge the knife again, this time hooking my arm around his shoulders and pulling him into the thrust at the same time.
“You like that?” I hiss in his ears. “You want some more?”
Over and over, the blade pierces his skin; each time he shudders and gasps and soon I begin hitting bone and the jolt is like an electrical current that travels along my arm and vibrates in my shoulders.
My hand is sticky and warm now, like it’s been dipped into room-temperature glue and I feel almost stoned, perfectly aware of every sound, every sensation. Relishing every moment of my conquest.
I pull away and Cody staggers around the hallway for a moment, his arms cradling his gut like the pink intestines were a small baby that he could somehow protect. Dropping the knife, I rush toward him with a growl, pushing at his chest with my both my hands at the moment of impact. He stumbles backward and momentum carries his body over the railing; then he’s falling, end over end, bouncing off the hand rails and banisters and walls until his body hits the ground floor with a sound that’s like a thud, squish, and sharp crack all rolled into one.
It is complete now.
The competition has been removed from the playing field.
I look over the railing at Cody’s twisted, broken body for a moment and then go back into the apartment. I head into the kitchen and lather dish soap on my hands and forearms until it’s a pink froth; warm water washes the blood away and I watch as it swirls down the drain, realizing that it carries all the remnants of my old life with it.
I hear footsteps coming down the stairs. They sound tentative, as if the person is trying their hardest to achieve stealth but still failing miserably. A step, the squeak of a floorboard, a few moments of silence. Another step.
When the person reaches the landing I hear a sharp intake of breath and a sound like a hand being slapped over a mouth. Apparently whoever it is has seen the blood. And I imagine there’s quite a bit of it out there.
“Cody? Richard?”
Polly’s voice. She sounds as if she’s afraid to make a noise but knows that she has to. That if she doesn’t call out the suspense of not knowing will drive her mad.
“Anyone?”
“In the kitchen.” I reply as I dry my hands on the little towel with the art deco designs. The towel which Jane always said was decorative only. Which is probably one of the many reasons things had to change. Decorative towels. Form without function… that could very well be the epitaph on the tomb of humanity.
I hear the beaded curtain rattle behind me and my heightened senses pick up that unmistakable scent of Polly’s body. That tantalizing combination of sweat and powder and skin and perfume, so heady that I could get drunk just by breathing it in.
“Richard… where’s Cody? Whose blood is that out in the hall?”
Her voice sounds hopeful and frightened all at the same time and my stomach flutters a little. How long have I wanted this woman? How many years did I deny myself the pleasure of even admitting that I wanted her? All that wasted time….
“Yeah, Cody. I’m afraid he didn’t make it, honey. Didn’t make the cut, you might say.”
Silence.
I fold the towel carefully and place it back on its little rod.
I feel power surging through my veins like I’ve never known. When you have the ability to decide who live or dies, you become almost like a god. You see the entire world spreading out before you like a veritable buffet where you’re free to pick and choose only the things which most please you.
“Oh my God, Richard, you’re bleeding! There’s blood all over you!”
I hear her feet pattering across the tile and finally turn to face her. She’s more beautiful now than I have ever seen her; her skin so radiant that it almost seems to glow, her hair shiny and flaxen, her breasts jiggling slightly as she runs to me, the hem of her skirt swishing slightly around her ankles. And her shirt. The one she’s wearing now let’s me know it wasn’t all in my imagination. There’s a message there after all.