Don’t peek! I can see.
It smells real nice, too. Ivory.
Doll says, chiding, as if Mr. Radish had naughtily begun to peek over his shoulder at her, Mister! Turn your head and shut your eyes too.
I am, Doll. I am.
Poor Mr. Radish quivering and shivering in the bathwater in that grimy tub and the tattered shower curtain like a stage curtain pulled back to reveal him to jeering eyes. Doll summons forth her Doll-rage. Doll is holding the razor-on-the-stick just behind her right buttock, along the smooth curve of her warm flesh. Seeing naked hairy knees drawn up to a collapsed-looking chest reminds her of Ira Early and that look of a man who, in his clothes, looks solid, but without his clothes is flaccid and lumpy and you just want to slash-slash-slash.
Doll’s eyes are revealed a sharp glassy-green, like reflectors.
Mister? Pro-mise? Don’t look till I’m in the tub?
Back in the bedroom the TV is turned up loud but not too loud. The E-Z is that kind of reliable motel; people mind their own damned business. The time, Doll has shrewdly noted, is 11:48 P.M. A practical time. If her weak-willed Daddy has drifted down the street for a drink or two, by this time he’s back. Mr. Radish croaks out a final reply, yes he p-promises not to l-look, and Doll tiptoes to the tub to where the naked man awaits her trembling in anticipation, and she strikes unerringly with the razor one! two! three! in the sawing technique she has perfected, and a four! and five! for good measure with such deadly force (city homicide detectives will marvel) that the victim’s head is nearly decapitated from his body.
Softly Doll murmurs, See?
Oh, God, it’s after midnight. Mr. Early pulls into the parking lot panting and repentant. Where is Doll? Hasn’t Doll left the motel room yet? He’d had a premonition something bad might happen; he’ll never forgive himself if it’s his own daughter it happened to.
Seeing how the moon has slid halfway down the sky behind the E-Z Economy Motel and when you glance up, shreds of cloud like broken cobweb are dragging across its surface.
Dad-dy. I’m not mad at you.
Departing this city south on I-55 thirty-six hours earlier than Ira Early planned. He’s speechless in indignation and worry, and Doll just laughs at him. Tossing a small wad of bills onto his lap when she’d climbed into the car, no credit cards. Ira Early never swipes credit cards; that’s how you get caught. Doll is humming to herself, unplaiting her pigtails. Oh, her scalp hurts, the roots of her hairs and every hair. And she’s hungry.
Across the state line in Missouri they stop at a twenty-four-hour diner. Sliding into a corner booth not wanting to be noticed. Mr. Early is wearing a coal miner’s cap meant to hide his hair, but there isn’t much he can do about the Santa Claus whiskers. Orders a beer; he’s damned thirsty. But too upset to eat. Doll shamelessly devours a fudge ripple sundae. Wiping her prim little mouth to say finally, knowing how Mr. Early has been frantic to hear. Well, Daddy. Could be I have something for you.
Oh, Doll. No.
A good-у. For Dad-dy.
Giggling, passing to him beneath the table the aluminum-wrapped thing out of her purple leather jacket from Gap. Mr. Early would shove it back onto her knees in disgust except his fingers grasp it instead, groping. He wonders what it might be, something soft and fleshy still warm inside its wrapper? You ol’ pre-vert, Doll giggles. All for you.
It’s our reputation I’m worried about, Doll. Our livelihood in the world.
Oh grump! Nothing’s gonna stop us.
Is this true? Ira Early, stroking his bristly beard, wants to think so.
Before they leave the diner, Mr. Early takes out the revered AAA map, much creased from their travels, and smooths it open on the tabletop. Doll gets to choose their next destination, though sometimes, in the interests of business pragmatism, Mr. Early intervenes. Doll’s pointy red-painted nail hovering over the map. Where next?
Jack o’connell
The Swag from Doc Hawthorne’s
From The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction
Yuk Tang likes to think of himself as Darcey’s partner. Darcey would choke if he knew this. He works with Yuk Tang because everyone else he knows has moved west or south. And because Yuk Tang is connected with more than one guy in Little Asia who can move anything — TVs and jewelry right down to paintings and rare stamps and precious metals — in less than a week. And because Yuk Tang agrees to a sixty-forty split, with Darcey hugging the sixty end.
Though Darcey dislikes Yuk Tang on instinct, he admitted to himself last week, while sober and bored, that they work well together. They work the way he dreams about, like they had one smart brain and six fast hands. Yuk Tang has this innate talent for smelling dogs. He can take one whiff, any room of any house, halfway in the window, and give the thumbs down. Darcey has never known Yuk Tang to be careless or unpredictable. He’d walk away from an open jewelry box without flinching if the fifteen-minute buzzer on his watch went off.
For his part, Darcey thinks of himself as smart and in control. And it’s his friends who know whether someone’s enjoying a week in the Bahamas or just doing three hours at a funeral. Darcey’s generous with these friends. He gives them money and as much time as he can spare. There’s the guy whose sister is a groomer at a ridiculously expensive kennel. There’s the kid who works for the award-winning landscaper. And there’s Scalley, a new electrician for a hot local burglar and fire alarm company.
Darcey pays close attention to these people. He studies them the way he’d study a hotel poker game. He knows, without exception, what it is they respond to, what it takes to cement their trust in his friendship. He bought himself a pager so he can return their calls immediately. He knows their favorite restaurants and reserves good tables monthly. He takes them to terrible movies and manages to discuss the films afterward over coffee. He spent a serious chunk of money recently on Scalley’s dental restoration.
All of this has paid off like you read about. Without getting sloppy or greedy, Yuk Tang and Darcey have put away a barrel of money. Yuk Tang has shipped a wad to less fortunate family members back in the homeland. Darcey has filled more than one closet suitcase with respectable dollars. It’s a happy time. They’re not logging a lot of hours and they’re rarely losing any sleep. And most importantly, the worry is minimal. Their timing, their attention to detail and planning, has meant few close calls and no sudden trips out of town.
Darcey would hate to have to leave Quinsigamond again. He’s done it in the past and it breaks his heart. Even when the trip has been to Miami or Bermuda. He’s spent hours on clean beaches, ninety degrees and a breeze, dreaming about the coffee and the smell of the meatloaf at the Miss Q Diner. What he’d really like to do, and what he keeps hidden from everyone, is let some time pass and then launch into a legitimate business. A bar or, more exactly, a club. Something with style and subtlety, where people dress up and it never gets too loud. Sometimes, while on the phone with Scalley, Darcey doodles pictures of the club. Ceiling fans. A long bar. An office for himself, in an upstairs loft, with a one-way mirror for a wall.
Yuk Tang has some of his own plans that he keeps to himself. They’re vague, but they also involve the entrepreneurial arts. He’s thought about opening a restaurant. Or maybe a video-rental franchise that specializes in martial arts films. What he’d like most is an import clothing store. Women’s satin dresses and silk scarves. The mark-up could be tremendous. Because of relations in need, he hasn’t managed to pile up as much ready cash as Darcey. And though he doesn’t resent this, he is unhappy with the sixty-forty split. But his options are limited and he knows he’d have a hell of a time finding a reliable and intelligent partner who’d work with an Asian immigrant who can’t drive.