Peter Abrahams - Crying Wolf

Freedy went into the kitchen. A fuckin’ mess. Every dish dirty, hardened yellow batter caked to this and that, fridge door hanging open. Why should he close it? Had a pig for a mother. He sniffed once or twice: a pot-smoking pig. And the ants were out, ants in winter, which was pretty unusual.

He switched on the lights in his bedroom, tried to ignore the wall paintings-unicorns, toadstools, dopehead elves, the lion man, the poem with that planet spinning, out of fucking control. He was so busy ignoring things that at first he didn’t notice that the laptop, which he’d left on the bed, was gone.

That laptop was worth three hundred bucks. More important, much more important now, he wanted to have another look at what was on the screen. So where was it? Not there. Crash. Or there. Splatter. So where the fuck was it? Was it possible that someone had ripped him off? Ripped him off? A good way to die. Oh, to get his hands on whoever it was: a killing desire swelled rapidly inside him, like he would burst, and what was this? He had: blood was seeping out of his hand. Or maybe it was just a cut, by-product of the laptop search. Still, a mystical moment: everything did have meaning.

He went into the hall. Next door was the bathroom, next door to that her bedroom. He knocked. No answer. No light shone under the door, but he could hear music, tinny and faint, the way it sounded leaking from headphones, and he could smell pot, stronger than in the kitchen. He opened the door.

Lights out. A good thing: darkness hid the paintings on her walls, paintings he hadn’t seen in years, and never wanted to again. One of them was the picture of his birth, based on that photo she had. A circle of women, all naked, although it couldn’t have been that way in real life, all naked like witches with their unshaved legs and armpits, and in the middle her with her legs spread, and one of the witches holding him up, bawling and red.

His eyes adjusted to the weak light penetrating the shade from the street lamp. She lay in bed, eyes closed, singing along to the music in the headphones, singing that came and went, more like muttering, but he identified it: “Winterlude,” fucking Bob Dylan song he hated. Every winter, from the first flake till the last melting patch in the trees, “Winterlude.” He thought of ripping the headphone jack out of the machine, was seriously considering it, when he noticed the green light flashing under her bed. He bent down-so close he could smell her breath, but there was no chance of her hearing him, not with Bob Dylan in her ears-and retrieved the laptop.

Freedy took the laptop to his room, opened it, pressed the on button. Words popped up on the screen, but nothing about Leo Uzig: snow falls like velvet down

More of her poetry shit. Were all poets ignorant? Down, for example: everyone knew it was made from goose or duck feathers, not velvet. He hit various keys, combinations of keys, trying to make the poetry go away, trying to find out what the computer knew about Leo Uzig. For example, he typed Leo Uzig, spelling both names several ways since he couldn’t remember exactly what he’d glimpsed on the screen that first time, then hitting control; or hitting control first and then the names. But he couldn’t even make the poetry disappear. He closed the thing, not hard, but hard enough to send a message.

Why should he be a computer expert? Soon, very soon, he’d be hiring them. On the other hand, he needed one now. What about Ronnie? It was possible.

Freedy walked over to Ronnie’s, less than a mile away, its yard backing onto the river. The river showed through the gaps between the low shadows of the unlit houses, frozen whiteness under a black sky. Late, probably very late, but Freedy wasn’t the least bit tired; full of energy, in fact. The whole town sacked out except for him: showed how much stronger he was, stronger than the whole town. They’d all faded, collapsed, passed out, while he still patrolled the streets.

Ronnie’s place was dark like the others. Not much of a place, but because of the slope down to the river it had that basement, with sliders around the back, unlike most of the places in the flats, the land being so goddamn wet. That was where Freedy went, around to the back: Ronnie wasn’t the type who’d remember to lock the sliders.

But he had. That Ronnie. The thing with sliders, though, Freedy thought, as he got his hand on the frame and bent his knees a little, the thing with sliders was Pop. Scrape. In he went. That Ronnie. Would he even remember Ronnie in a year or two? He tried to imagine himself sitting in his blue HQ, Agua Group, and remembering Ronnie, a Portagee with that hairy thing growing under his lower lip. No way.

Freedy avoided the bench press, a low shadow in the darkness, heard drip-dripping close by, went upstairs to the kitchen. The house was quiet, the only sound the fridge humming away. Hey! He was hungry. Freedy opened the fridge, found a tub of KFC, polished off a drumstick and a wing-bones and all when it came to the wing, just a small one.

Fueled up, he walked down the hall to Ronnie’s bedroom, laptop in hand. Door closed: he opened it, real silent, first turning the knob all the way. In the darkness, he could make out Ronnie’s head, a dark circle on the less dark rectangle of the pillow. The surprise was the second dark circle on the pillow next to Ronnie’s.

Freedy, gliding softly over to the side of the bed with that second sleeper, remembered the cigar smoker in the Santa Monica barnothing surprises me anymore- remembered that was supposed to be his attitude too. But still, he was only human. Careful, gentle, he got hold of a corner of the bedcovers, pulled them back, real slow.

A girl. Asleep on her side, facing Ronnie, and: her hand wrapped around his limp dick. A girl with a big butt, light enough to see that, a big butt that reminded him of Cheryl Ann. In a flash he figured it out. This was the sophomore from Fitchville South, the one who hadn’t been ready to go beyond hand jobs. She looked ready now. But to make sure, Freedy flicked on the bedside light.

Oh, yes, good and ready, and in the second or so before their eyes opened, Freedy saw how like Cheryl Ann she was, not just the fat butt, but other things too, especially her age. She was about the same age Cheryl Ann had been back in high school, back when Ronnie had made his little play for her, and he and Ronnie’d had their little rat-tat-tat.

Because of those memories, Freedy’s mood was already changing a bit as their eyes opened, becoming less playful. Ronnie gets the girl: what sense did that make?

Moment they saw him, they both jerked wide awake, made startled noises, Ronnie’s higher-pitched than the girl’s. Very next thing, the girl let go of Ronnie, yanking her hand back off Ronnie’s dick like it was on fire, which it most certainly was not. This was fun.

“Well, well,” said Freedy. “Nothing surprises me anymore.” He laid his hand on that fat butt. Why not? He was a regular guy. Should he get rid of Ronnie for ten minutes or so? Was that what Bill Gates would do? Not when he was on a mission, and Freedy was.

There was a funny sound in the air, electric and silent at the same time. It ended when he took his hand off the girl. At least she’d gotten to feel what a real man felt like, if only for a moment. “Done your homework?” he said to her, which was pretty good. No one laughed, but so what? Not everyone appreciated wit, which was why the entertainment industry always ended up appealing to the lowest common whatever it was. “See you in the kitchen, Ronnie,” he said, “if you’ve got a sec.”

Freedy went to the kitchen, switched on the light, opened the laptop on the table. Gray screen with nothing on it. Ronnie appeared a minute or so later, shirt on backward.