Peter Rabe - Benny Muscles In

There wasn’t a soul in the motor court. The early-afternoon sun came down like a hammer, and when Benny killed the motor next to the cabin he could hear the air conditioner hum. Hand in one pocket, he crunched across the gravel, stopped. Just the air conditioner humming in the cabin and the white heat coming down like a hammer. Then he pushed the door open, fast. She didn’t even jump.

“That you, Benny?” Pat looked over her shoulder and said, “Hi.” She stood in front of the cool blast of the window unit, legs wide, arms over head, naked. A back like silk; no, like nylon, he thought. And her belly would be flat, curved in, even, her breasts sharp and impudent. He jumped at a noise.

“You alone?”

“Why, baby!” She came over.

“Didn’t you hear-”

“The shower curtain.” She put her slim arms over his shoulders and smiled. “Glad to see you,” and she gave him a small kiss on the mouth. “You glad to see me? Huh?” She stepped back.

“Yes.”

“Well? Look! You’re not even looking at me. Never mind.” She came back to him, pressing herself close. Her head was in the curve of his shoulder, rubbing against his neck like a cat’s. “Hi!” Her voice was husky. “Hi, baby.”

He coiled his arms around her back, a wild strong embrace, which he checked before it got done. He must be losing his grip.

“Baby?” she said. “Why, baby…”

He pushed her away. Time was running out. “Listen, Pat-Look, let’s have a drink, huh?” He sounded tense, staccato.

“You want one, baby?”

Time was running out.

“Sure, and you. You want one.” He went to the bathroom, where they kept the glasses and the bottle by the sink. “Stay there,” he called through the door. “Stay there while I’m fixing it.”

He fixed it, because time was running out. He fixed it strong and heavy to make sure she’d pass out, pass out not to be in the way, not to object, not to get hurt, perhaps.

“Here. Mud in your eye.”

She took the glass and winked at him over the rim. “To us?” she said.

He watched her almost with a stare, watched her sniff the glass, tilt it, and the liquid disappearing, slipping away slow and even.

“How was it?”

“Bitter.”

He turned away. Pat was lying on the bed, the thin sheet spread over her body.

“Sit here?” she asked.

“Sure. Sure, kid.” He started to pace, putting the bottle down, picking it up, not knowing what to do to push time.

“You’re calling me ‘kid’ again,” she said.

Her tone made him wary. He knew that tone. Next she would-Hell, and for a moment he relaxed. Right now, the way she was fixed, it wouldn’t make any difference if she decided to shoot him in the back.

Then he paced again.

“Benny,” she said. She was up on one elbow. “Benny, I’m talking.”

“Sure, talk. I’m listening.”

“Benny, you’re-you’re not sitting on the bed, Benny.”

He watched her closely, not caring how it looked, and then she weaved. Or did she? The other elbow now, to turn and see him better by the window. “You’re so slow, Benny. How come every time I’m fast, you’re slow?”

He licked the sweat off his upper lip and stopped by the bed. “Pat?” he said.

“Yes?” She opened her eyes. She opened them and fell back on the pillow. “Benny, why are you-you never-you never give-” And then she looked sunken and loose, her mouth open with the dull pull of unconsciousness. He looked away.

Benny packed the new suitcase and took it outside. There was no sign of life. The white air felt as if it were going to start hissing with heat and the trees in the glen behind the cottage stood as if they had been poured into a mold. He put the suitcase in the back seat. Then he pressed the button that made the top come up, but nothing happened. It didn’t even hum or click. He ran back inside to get Pat.

When he realized that she was naked, he almost choked with rage. Everything was packed in the trunk. He ran to the car and grabbed the suitcase, but before going back he slid halfway into the front seat and hit the starter. It went plop and that’s all. The sweat that covered his body turned cold and sticky, and for a moment he didn’t move. He tried it again, knowing that it wasn’t going to work.

On the hood, where it humped down in front, he could see shiny finger marks in the gray dust.

If they were watching, he didn’t see them; if they were near, there was no sign of them. With terror creeping over his skin, he got out of the car and moved to the rear. Nerves. Nothing but crazy nerves. If they were here they would have waited for him in the cabin, they would have taken Pat before he came back. But perhaps not. This is the way Pendleton would do it. But he wouldn’t leave his daughter in the middle of it. A drop of sweat ran into the corner of his mouth. Licking at it, he grabbed for the suitcase and went inside. First of all he had to get her dressed. Then the car. Fix the car.

Pat’s skin felt cold and dry. He struggled with the dress, forgetting about the underthings. Then the shoes. Nothing to it. She was ready. He hesitated before picking her up, went outside again. It was true there were finger marks on the hood. So what? He pressed the lever that released the hood, making it dip up with a quick, spring-loaded gape. The battery cable was off. That happened sometimes. He jammed it back on, pulled the hood down, and looked around. Just like before, hot dust, white gravel, nothing moved. A cat scurried across the drive and squeezed under the floor of the next cabin. Benny stood in the bare space like a man in a ghost town; afraid of a quiet noon hour, anxious about the shrunken shadows along the edge of the cabins.

Then the noise. At any other time it would have sounded like the squeak of a bedspring. He sprinted to the cabin in three leaps.

It was dim in there and cool. Pat was lying on the bed just as he had left her. Except that now she was on her stomach.

“She started to snore, so we turned her over.”

They grinned. They came out of the bathroom and first the thin guy with the Adam’s apple grinned and then the stocky one with the bald head grinned too. They looked friendly enough, except for the guns. The thin guy was leveling his and then the bald one did too.

“Don’t bother to run.” The last time Benny had seen them, they had been holding cocktail glasses instead of guns. “We aim to bring you back alive, and running would spoil it.”

Benny knew where they came from. Bring him back alive. That would be Pendleton’s order.

“My name is John Smith,” said the thin one, “and this is my partner, Jack Brown.” The man smiled, lazy and slow. He had round, yellow eyes with sharp black dots to the middle, just like a chicken’s. Then he said, “Jack Brown, frisk the prisoner.”

When Benny took a step back both guns came up. He stopped.

“And now, friend, I know what you’re going to say. You’re going to say. ‘Fellers, you got the wrong guy,’ aren’t you, Tapkow?” Smith grinned. Then he waited but Benny wasn’t saying a thing.

“Jack Brown.” Smith wasn’t smiling any more. “Frisk the prisoner.”

The bald guy stepped up to Benny and took the target pistol out of his pocket The hairless skull was right under Benny’s chin, and he could smell the sour sweat coming from the man.

“What a thing for a hero to be carrying,” Smith said. “Brown, show Tapkow what a hero he is.” Brown slammed his fist into Benny’s midriff without even taking a step back.

Benny doubled over, his tongue swelling against his teeth, a green pain rotating around his stomach.

“Jack Brown is a little primitive,” he heard the thin man’s voice saying, “but then, a hero like you wouldn’t frown at a little horseplay, now would you, Tapkow?”