“Well, I want one,” Lori said.
He asked what was in it.
“Rum and tequila, mostly. A little OJ.” Kevin grinned. “Couple of secret ingredients. Fix you one? Or are you all right with the IPA?”
“I’ll try one.”
“You got it,” Kevin said.
During the first round of Key Hoppers she told him her name was Lori, which he knew, and that her husband’s name was Jerry, which he also knew. He told her his name was Hank Dettweiler and that he was in town on business. He’d been married once, he told her, but he was long divorced. Too many business trips.
During the second round she said that she and Jerry weren’t getting along too well. Too few business trips, she said. It was when they were together that things were bad. Jerry was too jealous and too possessive. Sometimes he was physically abusive.
“That’s terrible,” he told her. “You shouldn’t have to put up with that.”
“I’ve thought about leaving him,” she said, “but I’m afraid of what he might do.”
During the third round of Key Hoppers (or Florida Sunsets, or whatever you wanted to call them) he wondered what would happen if he reached down the front of her dress and grabbed hold of one of her breasts. What would she do? It was almost worth doing just to find out.
There was no fourth round, because midway through the third she suggested they might be more comfortable at her place.
They took her car and drove to her house. It was a one-story box built fifty years ago to house vets. No Down Payment to Gls, Why Rent When You Can Own? He figured it was a rental now. Her car was an Olds Brougham a year old and her house was a dump with Salvation Army furniture and nothing on the walls but a calendar from the dry cleaners. Why rent when you can own? He figured Lori and Jerry had their reasons.
He followed her into the kitchen, watched as she found an oldies station on the radio, then made them both drinks. She’d kissed him once in the car, and now she came into his arms again and rubbed her little body against him like a cat. Then she wriggled free and headed for the living room.
He went after her, drink in hand, caught up with her, and put his arm around her, reaching into the front of her dress and cupping her breast. It was the move he’d imagined earlier, but of course the context was different. It would have been shocking in a public place like the Side Pocket. Here it was still surprisingly abrupt, but not entirely unexpected.
“Oh, Hank,” she said.
Not bad. She remembered the name, and acted as if his touch left her weak-kneed with passion. His hand tightened a little on her breast, and he wondered just how hard he could squeeze before fear and pain took the place of passion. They’d be more genuine emotions, certainly, and a lot more interesting.
People always got more interesting when you handed them something they didn’t expect. Especially if it wasn’t what they wanted. Especially if it was painful or frightening, or both.
He pulled her down onto the couch and began making love to her. His touch and his kisses were gentle, exploratory, but in his mind he hurt her, he forced her. That was interesting, too, a mental exercise he had performed before. She was vibrating to his touch, but she’d be screaming her lungs out if his actions matched the images in his mind.
Just something for his own private amusement, while they waited for Jerry.
But where was good old Jere? That was the question, and he could tell it had occurred to her as well, could tell by the way she worked to slow the pace. It wouldn’t do if he got to nail her before the Jealous Husband burst through the door. The game worked best if he was caught on the verge, made doubly vulnerable by guilt and frustration, and awkward, too, with his pants down around his knees.
Happily, their goals were the same. And, when his pants were indeed around his knees and consummation appeared to be right around the corner, they both froze at the sound of a key in the lock.
“Oh my God!” she cried.
Enter Jerry. The door flew open and there he was. You looked at him and you wanted to laugh, because he was hardly the intimidating figure he was supposed to be. Traditionally, the outraged husband was big as a house and meaner than a snake, so that his physical presence alone would scare the crap out of you. Jerry wasn’t a shrimp, but he was a middle-aged guy who stood five-ten in his shoes and looked like his main form of exercise was changing channels with the remote control. He wore glasses, he had a bald spot. He looked like a store clerk, night man at the 7-Eleven, maybe.
Which helped explain the gun in his hand. You take a guy five-four, eighty years old, weighs no more than a sack of flour, you put a gun in his hand, you’ve got a figure that commands respect.
Lori was whimpering, trying to explain. Hank got to his feet, turned from her, turned toward Jerry. He pulled up his pants, fastened them.
“You must be Jerry,” he said. “Now look, just because you got a gun don’t mean you get to jump the line. You gotta wait your turn, just like everybody else.”
It was comical, because Jerry wasn’t expecting that. He was expecting a load of begging and pleading, explanations and justifications, and instead he got something that didn’t fit any of the slots available for it.
So he didn’t know how to react, and while he was figuring it out Hank crossed the room, grabbed the gun in one hand, hit him with the other. His fist went right into the pit of Jerry’s soft stomach, just about midway between the nuts and the navel, and that was the end of the war. You hit a person there just right, before he’s had a chance to tense his stomach muscles, and if you put enough shoulder into the punch you can deliver a fatal blow.
Not instantly fatal, though. It can take a day or a week, and who has that kind of time?
So he let Jerry double up, clutching his belly with both hands, and he grabbed hold of him by the hair on his head and forced his head down hard, fast, and brought his own knee up hard, fast. He smashed Jerry’s face, broke his nose.
Behind him, she was carrying on, going No, no, no, clutching at his clothing. He backhanded her without looking, concentrating his attention on Jerry, who was blubbering through the blood that coursed from his nose and mouth.
That was nice, that knee-in-the-face maneuver. His pants were already bloody at the knee, and it was a sure bet there was nothing in Jerry’s closet that would fit him. That was the advantage of having the husband be a big bozo, the way the script called for it; after you were done with him, you could pick out something nice from his wardrobe.
But his pants were khakis, replaceable for thirty bucks at the nearest mall. And, since they were already ruined—
This time he cupped Jerry’s head with both hands, brought it down, brought his knee up. The impact brought a great cry from Lori. He gave Jerry a shove and the man wound up sprawled against the wall, jaw slack, eyes glassy. Conscious? Unconscious? Hard to say.
And what did it matter? Eager to get on with it now, he went over to Jerry, put one hand under his chin and the other on the top of his head, and snapped his neck.
Hell of a sound it made. First a grinding noise like something you’d hear in a dentist’s office, and then a real sharp crack. Left you in no doubt of what you’d just done.
He turned to Lori, relishing the look on her face. God, the look on her face!
“Honey,” he said, “you see what I did? I just saved your life.”
It was amusing, watching the play of emotions on her sharp little face. Like her head was transparent, like you could see the different thoughts zooming around in there. She had to come up with something that would leave her with a pulse at the evening’s end, and the effort made her thoughts visible.