Max Collins - Scratch Fever

Nolan had left his LTD home, with its Rock Island plates, for just this reason; he’d suffered the discomfort of Sherry’s little Datsun because its Ohio plates wouldn’t lead anybody to him.

But Infante was dumb. Which became even more obvious when Nolan found the car unlocked. He checked the registration; the car belonged to Carl R. Hines, Infante’s boss.

Nolan took the 9 mm out of his waistband.

He went to the door of the room the Mazda was parked in front of. He knocked.

Infante answered the door wearing a towel, which he held around him with one hand; in the other was the twin to Nolan’s 9 mm, but he was too startled and slow for it to do him any good.

Before Infante knew what was happening, Nolan slapped him across the face with the automatic, knocking him back into the room, the 9 mm’s twin tumbling out of Infante’s hands, leaving him sitting on the floor with the towel a puddle across his lap, rubbing his face and saying, “Shit! Shit!”

Nolan shut the door.

Infante said, “You fucker!”

“Shut up.”

Infante started to get up.

Nolan pointed the 9 mm at Infante’s head. “Keep your seat,” he said.

Infante’s eyes darted around, looking for his 9 mm.

“It’s under the bed,” Nolan said. “I don’t think you can get to it in time.”

“I’m going to kill you, you fucker.”

“I don’t think so.”

“How did you get here so fast?”

“Weren’t you expecting me?”

“Not for a couple days. I figured first you’d go to Chicago and check on why we tried to hit you.”

“That’s pretty smart — for you, Infante. But, no, I already know who sent you: a bitch named Julie, with a heart as big as all indoors.”

“She’ll kill you if I don’t, Nolan. She’s smart. Too smart for you.”

“We’ll see. Where’s Jon?”

Infante grinned. “Your lover boy?”

“My what?”

“Julie told me about you two. I’m gonna kill him, too. I’m gonna feed him your dead dick, first. He’ll like that.”

Nolan laughed. “Julie is smart. She’s been pushing the right buttons where you’re concerned, obviously.”

“What do you mean?”

“Never mind. What was the plan, Infante? Was she going to wait for me to show up, then try to trade Jon to me, in return for leaving her the hell alone?”

Infante looked disappointed. “Maybe,” he said.

“And then she was going to have you hit us both.”

Infante grinned again. “Maybe.”

“Where’s Jon?”

“Fuck you, fucker.”

“Don’t tell me. I don’t want you to tell me. I’d rather tie you in a chair and burn the bottoms of your feet till you tell me.”

That made Infante nervous. “I tell you, I don’t know where he is. Somebody, some friend of hers, is keeping him. All I know is it’s not far from here.”

“Is that the truth? Believe me, I’d get a kick out of burning your fucking feet.”

“It’s the truth! I don’t know where the fuck he is.”

Nolan nodded; he believed Infante. Goddammit.

And Infante whipped the towel off his lap and at Nolan’s face, and it stung, stunning him, and the naked Infante was on him, and Nolan went over backwards.

Then Nolan was on his back, and Infante’s hands were on Nolan’s throat squeezing, and the world was turning red.

“You shouldn’t have killed Sally, you fucker! You shouldn’t have killed Sally!”

Nolan fired the 9 mm, and Infante took it in the gut; his hands loosened around Nolan’s neck, and Nolan pushed him off. Infante lay on the floor like a fetus, clutching his stomach, looking up at Nolan, dying.

“You shouldn’t have killed Sally,” Infante whimpered.

“You shouldn’t have killed my dog,” Nolan said.

BY midafternoon, Jon wasn’t afraid of her anymore.

She was really just this poor, sad person, Ron was, somebody who got stuck with the responsibility of her family in such a way that it, well, made a man out of her. She wasn’t stupid, though smart wasn’t the word for her, either. Just this poor, uneducated, pathetic case, who he’d feel very sorry for if she didn’t have him handcuffed to a bed in what was apparently an old house out in the country somewhere.

He guessed he’d been raped. It was a new experience for him, maybe even a learning experience: he understood better what women had been going through all these years. Still, he had a hunch he could put up with being raped better than most women would, as long as it wasn’t a man doing it.

If he’d been pressed about it he’d have to admit that he’d found some enjoyment in it This strange, hungry, mannish woman sitting on him, grinding, coming like crazy, which was the good part: that made her beholden to him, in a way. Afterwards, still on top of him, she’d smiled and stroked his cheek and then suddenly her face had fallen and she seemed embarrassed or something, and got off him and ran out of the room, scooping up her clothes as she went.

She came back in T-shirt and jeans, with breakfast.

“It’s afternoon,” she said, shrugging, “but I figured maybe you oughta have something to eat, and... I don’t know... this seemed right.”

She’d made him sourdough pancakes and link sausages and American fries. On a nice plate, with a big glass of orange juice. It looked great. She had it on a tray, which she handed him.

“How about undoing this?” he said, nodding toward his cuffed hand.

She shook her head no. “Can’t do that.” She seemed embarrassed about that, too.

She went over and let up the shade, and sun came in.

He ate the breakfast.

“This is terrific,” he said.

She sat on the edge of the bed, watching him, smiling just barely; saying nothing.

When he was done, she took the tray away and was gone for over an hour. At one point he heard water running. Was she taking a bath? Then he heard a hair dryer.

When she returned, she was wearing a white peasant blouse, lacy in front with long sleeves; and jeans. She had a little makeup on: pale lipstick; blush on her cheeks. Her head was a mess of curls: ducktail no more; she had hot-curled her hair, evidently, after washing it. The perfume she had on was a little strong, an evergreen fragrance, like a room deodorizer, and it hit him as soon as she stepped in the room. But it wasn’t an unpleasant smell, and he found it kind of touching.

She came over and sat on the edge of the bed.

“Who are you, anyway?” she asked.

“My name’s Jon. I play rock’n’roll. You know that.”

“No,” she said, not looking at him, still embarrassed, “tell me about you. I want to know about you.”

He told her about himself. About living with various relatives while his mother, the “chanteuse,” worked the Holiday Inn circuit or whatever; about his aspirations to be a cartoonist, which really seemed to interest her.

“My brother used to read Spider-Man ,” she said, grinning. “I still got some of the books.”

“No kidding?”

She got up and went over to the dresser. She opened a drawer and took out a three-inch stack of comics, then came back and sat on the edge of the bed and put them in Jon’s lap.

They were early issues of Spider-Man, The Fantastic Four, The Avengers , well read but not in bad shape; not the very first issues, but within the first twenty of each. Toward the bottom of the pile he found Amazing Fantasy 15, which had the first Spider-Man story.

“Do you know what this is worth?” Jon said, holding it up for her to see the cover, which showed Spider-Man dragging a bad guy to justice in the sky.

“I’d never sell it.”

“It’s probably worth five or six hundred bucks.”