“Charlotte.” She held out her hand; they shook. “You know, I think I know who you are. You’re Zeta’s tire regroover.”
“Yes,” he said.
“And you want a genuine booklet? Are you paying for it or is Zeta? Because Denny isn’t going to lay out any more credit; he’ll want pops.”
“I’m paying for it,” Zeta said. “This time, anyhow.”
“That’s how they always do it,” Charley said. “The first booklet is free; the next is five pops; the next is ten; the—”
The apartment door opened. Everyone ceased moving, ceased breathing.
A pretty boy stood there, bulky, well-dressed, with tangled blond hair, large eyes, an expression of intensity constricting his face so that in spite of his prettiness he had an ugly, cruel intensity to him. He surveyed Zeta briefly, then Nick, for several silent moments. He then shut the door after him, Ferok-bar locked it, walked across the room to the window, peered out, stood chewing on the edge of his thumbnail, radiating, all about him, ominous vibrations, as if something awful, something which would destroy everything, was about to happen . . . as if, Nick thought, he’s going to do it. He’s going to beat up all of us himself. The boy emanated an aura of strength, but it was a sick strength; it was overripe, as were his enlarged eyes and tangled hair. A Dionysus from the gutters of the city, Nick thought. So this was the dealer. This is the person from whom we get authentic tracts.
“I saw your squib on the roof,” the boy said to Zeta, as if announcing the discovery of some evil act. “Who’s this?” he asked, inclining his head toward Nick.
“Someone—who I know—who wants to buy,” Zeta said.
“Oh, really?” The boy, Denny, walked toward Nick, studied him at closer range. Studying his clothes, his face; judging me, Nick realized. As if some eerie kind of combat is involved, the nature of which was, to him, totally unclear.
All at once, Denny’s protruding, large eyes moved rapidly, he stared at the couchette, at the wrapped booklet lying on it.
“I dug it out of the waste tube,” Zeta said.
“You little bitch,” Denny said to the girl. “I told you to keep this place clean. You understand?” He glowered down at her; she gazed up, lips half-parted anxiously, her eyes unblinking with alarm. Turning rapidly, Denny picked up the booklet, tore the wrappings from it, studied it. “You got this from Fred,” he said. “What’d you pay for it? Ten pops? Twelve?”
“Twelve,” Charley said. “You’re paranoid. Stop looking like you think one of us is a track. You always think someone is a track if you don’t personally—”
“What’s your name?” Denny asked to Nick.
“Don’t tell him,” Charley said.
Turning to her, Denny raising his arm, drew back; she faced him calmly, her face inert and hard. “Go ahead,” she said. “Hit me and I’ll kick you where it’ll hurt for the rest of your life.”
Zeta said, “He’s an employee of mine.”
“Oh, yes,” Denny said sardonically. “And you’ve known him all your life. Why don’t you simply say he’s your brother?”
“It’s the truth,” Zeta said.
“What do you do?” Denny asked Nick.
“I regroove tires,” Nick said.
Denny smiled; his entire manner changed, as if the trouble had cleared. “Oh, yeah?” he asked, and laughed. “What a job. What a vocation. Handed down to you by your father?”
“Yes,” Nick said, and felt hate; it was all he could do to keep it from showing, and he wanted to keep it from showing; he felt afraid of Denny—perhaps because the others in the room were, and he was picking it up from them.
Denny held out his hand to Nick. “Okay, tire regroover, you want to buy a nickel or a dime booklet? I’ve got both.” He reached inside his leather jacket and brought out a bundle of tracts. “This is good stuff,” he said. “All authentic; I know the guy who prints them. I’ve seen Cordon’s original manuscript there in the plant.”
“Since I’m paying for it,” Zeta said, “it’ll be a nickel booklet.”
“I suggest THE MORALS OF PROPER MAN,” Charley said.
“You do?” Denny said sardonically, eyeing her. She met his gaze, as before, without flinching; Nick thought. She is as hard as he is. She is able to withstand him. But why? he wondered. Is it worth it, to be near such a violent person. Yes, he thought; I can feel the violence, and the volatility. He is apt, at any time, to do anything, any minute. He has an amphetamine personality. Probably he takes massive doses of one of the amphetamines, either orally or by injection. Or maybe, to do the job he does, he has to be this way.
“I’ll take that one,” Nick said. “The one she suggests.”
“She’s roped you in,” Denny said. “Like she ropes in everybody, every man, anyhow.” To Nick he said, “She’s a stupid. She’s a stupid, short bitch.”
“You fairy,” Charley said.
“The lesbian talks,” Denny said.
Zeta got out a five-pop bill and handed it to Denny; clearly he wanted to conclude the transaction and leave.
“Do I bother you?” Denny asked Nick, abruptly.
He said, carefully, “No.”
“Some people I bother,” Denny said.
“Of course you do,” Charley said. She reached out, took the handful of booklets from him, found the proper one and handed it to Nick, smiling her illuminating smile at the same time. Sixteen, he thought; no older than that. Children playing at the game of life and death, hating and fighting, but—probably sticking together when there is trouble. The animosity between Denny and the girl masked, he decided, a deeper attraction. Somehow, they functioned in tandem. A symbiotic relationship, he conjectured; not pleasant to look on but nonetheless real. A Dionysus from the gutter, he thought, and a small, pretty, tough girl able to—or trying to—cope with him. Hating him, probably, and yet unable to leave. Probably because he is, to her, so attractive physically, and, in her eyes, a real man. Because he is tougher than she is, and that she respects. Because she herself is so tough she knows what it means.
But what a person to be melded to. Like a sticky fruit in too warm a climate, he had melted; his face was soft and molten and only the blazing glare of his eyes held his features in conformity.
I would have thought, he thought, that those distributing and selling Cordon’s writing would be idealistic, noble. But apparently not. His work is illegal; it attracts those who naturally handle illegal things, and they are a type themselves. The objects they peddle don’t in themselves matter; it is strictly the fact that they are illegal, and people will pay a good, a very good, price.
“Are you sure this place is clean now?” Denny asked the girl. “You know, I live here; I’m here ten hours a day. If they find anything here—” He prowled about, suspicious in an animal-like way: a brooding suspiciousness, replete with hatred.
Suddenly, he picked up a floor lamp. He examined it, then got from his pocket a coin; he unscrewed three screws and the baseplate came loose in his hands. And, from the hollow shaft of the lamp, appeared three rolled-up booklets.
Denny turned toward the girl, who stood unmoving, her face calm—virtually so, anyway; Nick saw her lips press tightly together as if she were preparing herself for something.
Lifting his right arm, Denny hit her, hit at her eye but missed. She had ducked, but not far enough; the blow caught her on the side of the head above the ear. And, with startling speed, she grabbed his extended arm, lifted his wrist and bit him, bit deep into his flesh. Denny screamed, flailing at her, trying to free his wrist from her teeth.
“Help me!” Denny yelled at Nick and Zeta. Nick, not knowing what to do, started toward the girl, hearing himself mumble at her, telling her to let go, telling her she might bite through a nerve and leave his hand paralyzed. Zeta, however, seized her by the jaw, inserted his big, dark-stained fingers into the hinges and pried her jaws open; Denny at once withdrew his arm, examined the bite; he seemed dazed, and then, immediately after, the violence returned to his face. And now it was a murderous violence; his eyes bulged as if about to pop literally from his head. He bent, picked up the lamp, lifted it high.