Richard Stevenson - Death trick

I waited.

After a time he looked at me and said quietly, "You know, I haven't had sex with anybody since that night. I sleep with Kurt, and sometimes he holds me, but-" He shrugged. Tears slid down his cheeks.

I said, "Look-Billy-we could wait until tomorrow to do this. But it'll be better for you, I think, if we get it done now."

He wiped his face with his bath towel. "I know," he said. "Let's get it over with. I want to get this over with." He tossed the towel away, then sat with his face leaning against his open hand, his palm covering one dark eye.

I said, "There's a ground-level window beside that bed. Do you remember it?"

"Yeah. I do. I remember the breeze on my ass and my shoulders. It was a warm night, but by then I guess it had cooled off. I remember the window."

"There's a shade on the window. Was it up or down?"

"It was-the shade was down, but it was flapping against the windowsill-or the screen, I think there was a screen-and sometime, I'm not sure when, Steve reached over and put the shade up so that it wouldn't flap." His face went white. "Christ! Do you think somebody was-?"

I said, "Yes, I think someone was a few feet away from you and Steve, in the alleyway, watching and listening. And probably waiting."

Blount was breathing heavily now, angry, embarrassed, experiencing the fright and rage he'd have felt that night if he had known.

"After sex, then, you lay together for a time?"

"For a while. I don't know how long. He-Steve's head was on my chest. Yes, and then he fell asleep. I remember I had to move him off me when I went to the bathroom. I can't sleep, see, until I take a shower after sex. It's weird, I know, but-God, somebody was out there! All that time. Jesus!" "How long were you in the shower?" "A long time, probably. I do that. Then I sleep like a rock." "You were planning to stay, to sleep with Steve?" "Sure. I didn't have to work the next day. Of course." "After your shower you came back into the bedroom." He looked away, breathing hard again, and I could see him girding himself.

"Yeah. I came back then. I was starting to get back in bed when I saw it-the blood." There were beads of sweat on his forehead, and he blinked and repeatedly choked back the emotion as he described it.

"The sheet was up over Steve-I'd pulled the sheet over him because of the cool breeze when I'd gone into the bathroom, and it was still there when I got back. But the sheet was wet- soaking wet. All over his chest I could see this wetness, purplish in the blue light. At first I couldn't figure it out-I was dog tired, and I was still a little high. I thought, crap, what'd we spill, what is this stuff?

"Then I touched it, and somehow I knew right away it was blood, and I thought, oh shit, one of us has screwed up his rectum in some dumb way. But I thought it couldn't have been me, I'd just been in the shower and I was fine, and then it hit me all at once.

"I yanked the sheet away, and there it was-all this blood oozing out of Steve's chest. I got dizzy and I thought I was going to pass out. I just kept saying Steve, Steve, Steve, and I leaned down and I touched his face and shook his head, but all the time I was doing it, I could see he wasn't moving or breathing, and I knew he was dead.

"Then I just stood there looking at him. For a minute, maybe, or five, I don't really know how long, I stood there thinking what is this? What happened? I looked around the room, and it was the same as when I left it, except blood was coming out of Steve's chest, and he was dead.

"Then I guess I thought no, he can't be dead, and I started thinking a little, and I felt for his pulse.

I felt his wrist, and under his jaw, and I couldn't find a pulse, and I was starting to feel his groin when I smelled it. The shit-Steve had shit himself. I almost passed out again. I sat down on the floor, and then-there was the knife. Whoever had done it had dropped the knife, and it was right there, wet and purplish in the blue light."

I said, "You didn't touch it?"

"No. I guess I was already thinking, without even knowing I was. In fact, that's when I really started thinking. I thought, they'll think I did it, everybody will, and I'll go to prison again."

"Again?"

"Sewickley Oaks. It's all the same. Except maybe in real prisons they don't strap you down and zap you till you think you're going to fly apart-muscles and bones and brains exploding all over the ceilings and walls. Or maybe in the worst prisons that's what they do do, Attica or in the South."

"They did that? At Sewickley Oaks?"

With a look of the most intense loathing, he nodded once.

I said, "What happened next?"

"I–I got dressed and I walked out of the apartment, up Hudson."

"When you left the apartment, was the window screen in or out? It's a portable, adjustable screen.

I've seen it. When you left, where was it? Try to remember."

He tried, but he couldn't.

"But the screen wasn't on the bed, or on the floor where you could see it?"

"No. I don't think it was. No."

"What about the apartment door-when you went out. Open or closed?"

"It was locked. From the inside. I had to turn the bolt."

"Then you walked up Hudson."

"As soon as I got outside, the unreality of it hit me again, and I thought no, he can't be dead, and I thought maybe I'd been wrong and he was really still alive. There was a phone booth just a couple of houses up, on the corner at Hudson and Dove, so I called the police-started to call, but I didn't know Steve's address. I walked back to the apartment, memorized the address, and then went back and called. I said to go to the address, but I didn't say who I was."

"I know. It's on tape."

He grunted and shook his head. His T-shirt was soaked through with sweat, and droplets were now falling from his nose and chin.

"So you walked to Zimka's then? Up Hudson and through the park?"

"I knew I had to get out of Albany fast. I really didn't even understand what the fuck had happened, but I did know it was something horrible and I'd be blamed for it, and I had no choice but to run. No choice that I could see."

"And Zimka was home when you got there?"

"He was asleep. I had to bang on the door for-I don't know. A long time."

"How do you know he'd been asleep?"

Blount looked confused. "Because he said he was. He looked it. It was six in the morning. Did he tell you he wasn't?"

"No, he told me the same thing."

"But you don't believe it?"

"No. Maybe. I don't know."

"I don't get it. You keep saying suspicious things about Frank-you said he was in Trucky's parking lot that night when we left. Do you think Frank had something to do with- what happened?"

"Probably. It's not clear yet. Keep going. What happened next?"

"Frank borrowed a car and drove me to New York. I thought they might already be looking for me at the Albany airport, though I suppose they wouldn't have been watching that soon. Frank lent me the plane fare, and when I arrived out here, I called Kurt. I knew I could count on him, and I was right; he's been great. Look-what makes you think Frank is mixed up in this? Crazy old Frank. Frank is usually so whacked out he couldn't hurt a fly on downers."

I said, "Tell me about Frank. About you and Frank. Embarrassing or not, it's important that I know."

He looked away. "What's to tell? He's a trick-a friend I trick with. I like him. He likes me. We get it off together."

"Jerk-off buddies? That's not the way Frank sees it. It's not the impression I get."

He looked at the wall and said nothing.

I said, "Eddie Storrs and Frank Zimka are the same person, aren't they?"

He sat there, his chest rising and falling, his face desolate-willfully empty, it seemed. He gave a choked laugh, then fell silent again. Finally, he looked at me and said, "No. They're not the same.