Макс Коллинз - Spree

He couldn’t find a parking place up close, so he pulled around back. The parking lot in back wasn’t full, even on a Friday, partly because people didn’t seem to know it existed yet, and partly because the rear double doors were locked up after the mall closed. His was the only business open after hours, and had its own after- hours entry/exit accordingly, under that glowing green “Nolan’s” neon.

As he got out of the Trans Am, the wind whipped out at him, cutting through the raincoat, whistling through the skeletal trees behind him, beyond the parking lot. He realized how, in a way, this thriving little mall was situated in a rather desolate spot. Woods and farms and highways were its neighbors; you had to drive half a mile to run into commercial and residential again. Stuck out in the boonies, they were — making a small fortune.

He used a key to get in the double doors, and his footsteps echoed pleasantly down a hallway between Petersen’s, a big department store at left, and the Twin Cinemas, which hadn’t opened yet. This new addition — taking over the area of a water-bed store and an antique boutique, the only businesses at Brady Eighty to fail since its opening two years ago — was the only space not up and running. No other mall in the Cities could say the same — even North Park had its share of shuttered stalls.

He walked down the deserted mall, its walkway area quite wide, having been a plaza back in the unenclosed, pre-mall “shopping center” days, and well-dressed manikins in store windows stared at him, threatening to come to life. One of them did, only it was just the security guard, Scott, a pasty-faced kid of twenty-five who carried a phallic billy club on his belt, and no gun. Nolan liked the kid well enough, but he kept telling the mall manager to put two guards on, and make one of them an older guy, a retired cop. Nolan, like any good thief, knew what the possibilities were. Imagine, if somebody got in here one night and just started helping themselves.

He turned the corner and walked down to the Nolan’s mall entrance, which also was kept locked after hours, to keep his customers from strolling the mall. He unlocked the door and went in; music assaulted him, some vaguely British-sounding youth mumbling about love against synthetic strings and hollow percussion. Fridays and Saturdays, after ten, a deejay came in and the little dance floor, over at the left, was crowded with approval. Nolan shrugged. Whatever sells.

He felt the same about the look of the place — barnwood and booths with lots of nostalgic bric-a-brac on the walls, tin advertising signs, framed forties movie posters, the occasional historic front page; and lots of plants, hanging and otherwise. Sherry had done it, the decorating. Better she do it here than at home.

He went behind the bar and asked Chet, an older man he’d hired away from a place downtown, how the evening was going. Chet said A-OK, but had to shout. Nolan occasionally worked behind the bar, but only in a crunch; if Chet needed him, he’d say so. Nolan found a stool and looked at his crowd. Weekends were singles- dominated — meat market time. Some Big Chill-variety married couples, but mostly singles; he had a smaller, older crowd during the week. His friends from the Chamber of Commerce and country club would come by, spend some time, some money. He liked it here during the week.

He liked it here now, too, only in a different way. He liked the way the cash register rang on weekends; it played his favorite song. So, what the hell — these marks could listen to their favorite song, too, even if it was by some adenoidal Brit twit.

Sherry came over; she was wearing a red jumpsuit with Joan Crawford shoulders and a wide patent-leather belt. The outfit was Kamali, she said; that was a brand name, apparently.

Square shoulders or not, she looked terrific. Sculpted blond hair around a heart-shaped face with big blue eyes and long, real lashes and soft, puffy lips that pouted prettily even when she smiled.

Like she was now.

“You came,” she said.

“In my pants,” he said. “It must’ve been the sight of you that did it.”

She cocked her head to one side and shook it gently, smiled the same way. “No. It was the sight of all these customers.”

Nolan shrugged, almost smiled.

“You love being a prosperous businessman, don’t you?” she said.

“It ain’t half bad,” he said.

She stood very near to him, where he sat on a barstool.

“You love playing it straight, too, don’t you? You get a kick out of playing at being honest.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be working?”

“When somebody comes in that door, I’ll be there to greet them. I’ve come a long way from the Tropical.”

“I still don’t want you pouring any coffee.”

She touched his knee. “Haven’t you noticed? I’ve gotten better with my hands as I’ve gotten older.”

“You can get a five-yard penalty for holding, you know.”

She removed her hand, and her pouty smile turned wry. “That’s you, all right, Nolan. The referee of my life.”

“Maybe so, but I’m always interested in a forward pass. Somebody.”

“Huh?”

“Just came in. Do your duty.”

She went over to the door, where a handsome well-dressed brown-haired kid in his early twenties seemed glad to see her. Then he realized she was just the hostess, and when she realized he wasn’t here to dine, she merely pointed him to the bar area and dance floor, where he slipped into the crowd, just another would-be John Travolta. Or whoever this year’s hunk was.

Nolan said, “I think he liked you.”

“Dumb as a post. You could see it in his eyes. Well, anyway, I was saying. You’re an honest man, now. Why don’t you make me an honest woman?”

“Are you proposing?”

“No, just kidding. On the square. You know, we’ve been honeymooning since I was in puberty. You might want to consider something more serious.”

She smiled a tight little, crinkle-cornered smile, that wasn’t pouty at all, and left him alone at the bar to think about this. Which he never had before. Sherry was the first woman he ever lived with, for any length of time; he’d figured that in itself was a commitment, the biggest he’d ever made to a woman, anyway.

But, hell — he was a businessman, now. A straight, prosperous businessman — who happened to be living with a girl less than half his age. How did it look? The Chamber had its share of bluenoses, after all. Maybe marriage was the appropriate thing.

Nolan asked Chet for a Scotch, a single, and smiled to himself. I am going soft, Nolan thought. Seriously considering marriage. Worrying about how things look, what people would say. What would Jon say?

Across the room, at a small table, where he sat alone, feeling the glow of the eyes of appreciative single women upon him, Lyle Comfort squinted at the man at the bar and, slowly but certainly, like fire from the efforts of a stubborn Boy Scout rubbing rocks together, a thought formed.

Lyle Comfort, who just two hours ago was burying someone he’d killed in a wooded area across the river, recognized Nolan.

Quietly, he got up and left.

Lyle Comfort didn’t like killing people. But he did what he was told. That was his best quality: he was a good boy. He did what his pa said.

Tonight he had killed his sixth person in three weeks; that was two killings a week, though it hadn’t worked out that way exactly.

The first was the hardest. The girl. Angie. He’d killed her when she was still unconscious, so it wasn’t cruel. He’d shot her in the heart with a revolver, the Colt Woodsman Pa gave him for his last birthday. He couldn’t bear to shoot her in the head; it might mess her face up. He had buried her in the woods, a couple miles from the house, nice and deep. Hers wasn’t the only body buried out there.