Peter Rabe - Benny Muscles In

“Kill him,” she kept saying. “Kill him.”

“Pendleton. Stop!”

Pendleton didn’t stop. He took another step and reached for his daughter. Only when Benny had jerked the girl back did Pendleton seem to wake up. He raised his gun. Benny had never seen Pendleton with a gun before.

“You’ll kill her, Pendleton.”

It stopped him.

They weren’t listening to Pat any more. Their eyes met and the question was who could hold on longer.

“Pendleton,” Benny said, “you’re through.”

Benny had never seen the man stand that still before. Not even his shoulder moved.

“Pendleton, you’ve lost. You lost Pat.”

“Kill him,” she said.

Then Pendleton opened his mouth. “Tapkow, don’t try. I’m going to keep you alive-forever, Tapkow.”

“Kill him,” she said.

There was nothing to answer, no more to say, but first Benny laughed. He laughed straight in the old man’s face and it sounded as hellish as Pat’s scream. Benny could see it hit the man, saw him stir, while Benny tightened his grip on the girl to shift for the kill.

That’s when Pendleton broke. He flung himself forward, with arms flailing, so crazed he never thought of his gun. It came down like a stone, missing everything it was meant to kill, but then it did part of a job. The barrel caught Pat on the skull, glanced sideways, and the only thing that could stop Pendleton happened. Pat slid to the ground. There was blood on her hair.

Benny waited till they were both together, the unconscious girl breathing raggedly and Pendleton sobbing.

The hate made Benny hold it just a little longer, the hate that knew it had found its way. Then it moved Benny’s foot. The foot pushed at the man, pushed him till he was free of his daughter, and looking up with crooked eyes that didn’t see the gun. It spat in his face.

It spat and bucked and then it was empty.

Benny stood in the white light. He bent over Pendleton and found the small paper and saw the numbers on it and the names of the Italian cities. Then he just stood again. He didn’t notice when the gun dropped from his hand. He stood, feeling empty.

When he lifted Pat and carried her, holding her close and tight, the feeling came to him that with her so close the emptiness might not last much longer.

Doc Welch put the blanket back over Pat, keeping her arms outside and making it all look neat. “Nothing to worry about, Benny. She’ll wake up with a headache. Just give her another of these,” and he gave Benny a pill. Doc Welch closed his bag. “Now the other matter. The way you described it, she’s definitely moving on. Let’s have that syringe.” Benny pulled it out of his pocket and handed it over. “You see these graduations? Increase the dose from here to here. Same time interval. You have enough solution left?”

“That doesn’t matter. When it’s gone, it’s gone. She’s through with that stuff.”

Doc Welch just raised his eyebrows, then shrugged. Benny put the syringe back in his pocket. “She’s off it. I’m seeing to that. Things are different now.”

“I gather this is all your idea?”

“And hers.”

“If you say so.” Doc Welch reached for his hat. “You know anything about the cure?”

“It’s rough, I know.”

Doc Welch laughed. “It’s useless. No amateur can swing it.” He went to the door.

“Doc. You got a better way?”

“I don’t know, but it’s more scientific.” He laughed again.

“Doc, listen. Can you do it for us? Help her get off the horse?”

“Sure, Benny. The fee’s the same.” Doc Welch closed the door.

Benny went to the kitchen and had a cup of coffee. The house was very quiet, as if exhausted. Benny finished his coffee and went up to bed.

He woke late. The house was quiet again, big and empty, but it wasn’t the quiet of the night before. It was more like a wait, like holding the breath for the next big effort. Only there wasn’t a thing for Benny to do, not a thing but wait.

Alverato was gone, and so was Birdie. The rest of the guys had their stations in town and at points down the coast. This was the day for the pickup.

There was a radio man on Alverato’s yacht who was going to talk to a man on shore, and that man had a phone open to the place in Westchester, where Benny was going to listen to the pickup. That way nothing was out of hand, everything was tied up and prepared for the shipment.

Benny walked through the empty house, from the room with Alverato’s desk and the phones down the hall to the paneled bar. There was a boar’s head hanging on the wall, and two dumb eyes, made of glass, looked across the room to the door.

Benny walked back again.

It was twelve-fifteen. Back to the bar and maybe have a drink. He didn’t. He turned to go upstairs. The glass eyes showed a glint now, because the sun had shifted.

Pat was at the piano, staring across the room without seeing. “Pat,” he said. “How is it?”

“O.K.”

Benny went across the room and touched her arm. “One more day, Pat, and we’re free.”

She turned her head to see him. “It’s time,” she said. “It’s past twelve.” She pulled the sleeve of her sweater up, exposing the fine skin on her arm.

“Later, Patty.” He smiled at her and slowly pulled the sleeve back down. “It isn’t bad now, is it?”

“It’s time.”

“You got that pill, Patty. You’re all right now, aren’t you?”

The light from the window seemed to hurt her eyes. She turned away.

“Lie down a little. I’ll be back later. You don’t need it now, Patty, you’re fine.”

“Fine,” she said.

For the moment he had forgotten about the day and the phones and the waiting, but he saw the clock on the mantel now and went to the door. “You’re fine now, Patty. Wait for me here.”

“Fine,” she said again.

When he closed the door she said something else, but he didn’t hear it.

Twelve-thirty.

With a switch of attention that was almost automatic, he was alone again. Time shrank, but not the waiting. The dead pig on the wall looked at him and then past his shoulder. He turned, walked back.

One o’clock.

He had left the door to the bar open, so the glass eyes were on him halfway down the hall. That goddamn pig was getting on his nerves, and he veered to walk close to the wall. That goddamn pig didn’t let go till he was halfway into the bar.

One-twenty.

Perhaps Pat should have a small one just for safety’s sake; he’d be busy for a while.

Then he saw her through the glass of the front door, on the steps to the driveway.

“Pat!”

She turned, watching him come.

“You all right, Pat?”

“I got a headache. Benny, it’s time. Over an hour now.”

“A little later, Pat Go upstairs now.”

“You said you’d help me.”

“Go upstairs. You’re all right now, aren’t you?”

“You won’t let me have it?”

“Pat, listen to me. Later. I’m busy now and you’re fine.”

“Fine,” she said.

One-thirty-five.

“Pat, I gotta run. I-”

“Fine, fine,” she said, and then he turned to go back inside. So he didn’t see her hand come up, plucking her ear lobe with an unconscious gesture.

One-forty. The phones now. No, too early. The bar. The glass eyes and the glass bottles looked dim again because the sun had shifted. Benny wanted a drink. He rarely did, but he wanted one now. Any old bottle, one of the bottles under the dry-looking head of the pig up there. The drink was sharp, feeling hot. He started to pour again but stopped.

One-forty-five.

The phone rang. He was out of breath, hoarse even, but the other end was talking already. “This is Mick. That you, Benny?”