Nick Carter: The Living Death

"Blimey, I hurt," she said, rubbing her wrists. "And my mouth feels like it's full of cotton."

"Go into the bathroom and freshen up," I told her. "Run some cold water over your wrists. It'll bring back the circulation. Then we're going to visit your boyfriend, Teddy."

"He'll be asleep at this hour," she protested. "Teddy always sleeps in the mornings."

"This morning will be different," I said laconically.

She stood up and I watched her unzip the red dress, tossing it over her head with a quick motion. She had the round, young figure I'd expected, with that unvarnished sexiness to it, round breasts pushed high by her bra, rounded belly and a short waist. She walked toward the bathroom, throwing me a glance that asked if I were more interested. I smiled and watched her as she reached the bathroom door. She saw the smile was both hard and cold and the beckoning look in her eyes faded. She closed the bathroom door.

I sat down and stretched out in the stuffed chair, moving my muscles in cat-like fashion, using a system of muscular relaxation I'd come upon years ago in India. There was a knock on the door. It was probably room service but my hand was positioned to draw Wilhelmina as I opened. It wasn't room service. It was a tall girl with deep red hair, a gorgeous face and body to match, a girl called Denny Robertson. She wore a sheepish half-smile that would have melted an iceberg in seconds.

"I was on my way to work but I had to stop by and apologize for last night," she said, entering the room. "You told me you were here on business but I guess I just saw red, that's all. You know that damned temper of mine."

Her arms were around my neck and she was hugging me, her body soft, her breasts, even through the tweed jacket she wore, excitingly sensuous against my chest.

"Oh, Nick. It's unbelievably wonderful to see you," she breathed in my ear. That's when Vicky decided to walk out of the bathroom in bra and panties. I didn't have to see her. I knew it by the way Denny stiffened. When she stepped back her eyes were blazing pinpoints of dark fire.

"I can explain," I said quickly. She swung, fast, hard and on target. My cheek stung but she was already out the door. "Bahstad!" she flung back at me, making it sound as only the English can make it sound. I thought of going after her but I cast a glance at Vicky. She had the dress on and I knew she'd take off at the first chance. Once again I knew what I had to do and what I wanted to do. I swore under my breath at Vicky, at Denny, at bad timing, at everything in general.

I took Vicky by the arm and pushed her out the door.

"Let's move," I growled. "Let's get the show on the road." Once again that fleeting expression of smug satisfaction crossed her face but this time I got the impression that it was my discomfort she was enjoying. Her smugness did a fast fade as, some twenty minutes later, we neared her boyfriend's flat in the Soho district. She was back to the nervous, hand-twisting stage as we entered the narrow streets of Soho. Behind the night glitter, behind the strip joints, the betting shops, the mod centers, nightclubs and pubs, Soho was a grimy district of one-room flats and transient boarding houses.

"Can't we wait?" Vicky asked nervously. "Teddy's a sound sleeper and he doesn't like his mornings disturbed. He'll be smashingly mad, you know."

"I'm all upset," I answered, catching the flash of anger in her eyes. I knew damn well what Teddy would be smashingly mad about; her fingering him, that's what. It turned out that Teddy lived on the third floor of a run-down tenement, a dingy, gray building.

"You knock and you answer," I said to the girl as we stood outside the door of his flat. She was right about him being a sound sleeper. She was practically pounding on the door when a sleepy male voice answered.

"It's me, Teddy," she said, casting nervous glances up at me. I remained impassive. "It's Vicky."

I heard the lock being turned and the door opened. I shoved, pulling Vicky along with me into the room. Teddy was wearing pajama bottoms only, his hair long, curly and disarranged. There was a surly handsomeness to him and a cruel set to his mouth. He was pretty much what I'd expected him to be.

"What's all this?" he demanded, looking at Vicky.

"He made me come," she said, gesturing to me. "He made me bring him here, that's what." The alley cat in her was coming out quickly. The glower which I suspected was a part of Teddy grew deeper. A little sleep was still clinging to him but he was trying to shake it.

"What the hell's this all about?" he growled. "Who's this bloke?"

"I'll ask the questions, Teddy," I cut in.

"You'll get the hell out, that's what you'll do," he said.

"Careful, Teddy," I said evenly. "I just want a few answers and I'll leave. Be smart and you won't get hurt."

"I told him you'd be smashingly mad, Teddy," Vicky threw in, still bent on protecting herself.

A practiced glance had taken in the dingy room. The large double bed took up most of it There was also a dresser, with a porcelain dish, a water pitcher and an empty ale bottle on top of it. Teddy's clothes were carefully hung over the straight back of a wooden chair that stood beside the dresser.

"You get the hell out," Teddy said directly to me, an ugly note in his voice. It wasn't his fault that I didn't scare easily.

"The men you introduced Vicky to last night," I said, "who were they?"

A subtle change came over Teddy's eyes, a dangerous glint, immediately masked. He began to back away from me, at the same time snarling defiance.

"You've got three seconds to get out," he said. He was up against the dresser and I watched him reach back and pick up the porcelain dish. Though I was watching him, he still surprised me as with one quick motion he sent the dish skimming across the room. The dish became a wicked missile, skimming through the air viciously and accurately. I just managed to duck away, the hard, flat edge of it grazing my head to smash into the wall behind me. Teddy followed the dish with his body, diving across the room at me, leaping like a jaguar. The skimmed dish was a good, unexpected move that almost paid off. The follow-up was a mistake. I was in a crouch and he expected to take advantage of that. Instead, I came up on fast on my legs to meet his leap with a hard right. I heard the crack of his jaw, his cry of pain, and he arched backwards to land atop the big, double bed. I reached for him but he rolled off the other side.

Vicky had pressed herself into a corner of the room, but I kept one eye on her. Self-centered little alleycat that she was, I couldn't be sure how deep her loyalties ran. Teddy was on his feet again, his jaw swelling like a balloon. The knowledge of it seemed to infuriate him and he came at me like a windmill. He fought out of a crouch and he was quick, cat-like in his movements. Speed was his greatest asset and even that wasn't too great. I parried his blows, sneaked a hard left in that rocked him and brought through a sharp right to the gut. He doubled over but managed to half avoid a chopping right that nonetheless caught him hard enough to send him crashing into the dresser. Clinging to the dresser, blood trickling from his mouth, his face now swollen and misshapen, he looked back at me, eyes dark with hatred.

"All I want is some answers, Teddy," I said quietly. "Are you ready to give them to me?"

"Sure, cousin," he gasped, breathing hard for someone as young as he was. "I'll give you yer bloody answers." He grabbed the empty ale bottle from the dresser top, smashed the end of it against the wall and came at me, the jagged half in his hand. It was an old barroom brawl technique and made one of the deadliest of weapons, far worse than the ordinary knife. The jagged glass could slash equally well in any direction, leaving a much uglier wound than the sharpest knife.