Peter Abrahams - Crying Wolf

Drop-dead fuck-you, and he had her! Had one of them: they were twins, of course, not just sisters, he knew that now, had figured it out, maybe a little late; twins, so one couldn’t be bigger than the other, none of that big-sister-little-sister shit. And the one he had probably wasn’t as good-looking as the other one right now, not after their little-not fight, he didn’t want to say fight, more like a dust-up. But any-he didn’t want to say damage, more like nicks and scratches-any of that was probably temporary, and even if not, she was still drop-dead fuck-you, the best-looking girl ever in his life, bar none. Wouldn’t trade her for a million bucks.

Just joking.

“Babe,” he said. They had funny names, these twins, names he had never really grasped, couldn’t relate to. He just called this one babe. “Babe?”

She wasn’t answering.

Freedy could live with that. They both, he and she, needed a little breather, were both a little banged up. His right arm was still funny, not dangling useless anymore, but not right. That was one of the reasons his initial encounter with the girl hadn’t gone smooth as planned. He hadn’t been 100 percent, but take nothing away from her. A girl, and she’d given him a bit of trouble, more than Saul and his big boys. Amazing. Was it possible that at one point he’d even been lying on the floor while she climbed that rope ladder, almost to the top, almost free and clear? And those scratches on his face, and one eye half shut, not as bad as hers, but still. She was amazing.

She was amazing and he liked that. “Babe?” he said.

Not answering. He liked that too. He was getting more mature. A man, a diesel, buff, ripped fuckin’ animal such as himself needed a woman to match. That was the revelation that had hit him while he lay beside her in the spyhole room between F tunnel and the dollhouse, both of them just breathing for a while. He liked her. And would he answer in her place? Hell no.

Having a woman of your own power, making the right match-it went back to Adam and Eve. Had he ever had a woman like that, an equal, in his life? Not close. Nothing against Estrella, he’d learned a lot from her, especially practical things, like how to make dreams come true, but she wasn’t close.

“Going to need some information from you,” he said.

Not answering. No sound in the spyhole room but the dripdripping, nothing to see but total blackness.

Needed information, to make this dream come true. He’d already made-didn’t want to say a mistake-not the best moves once or twice, no fault of his own. Like forgetting to write a ransom note at first-maybe not the best move. Had to give people guidance, right? Had to provide leadership. Meant he’d had to leave the spyhole room, go all the way back, down F, into N, over to the trapdoor, down inside again, retracing the whole route he’d dragged her, just to write that note like he should have in the first place. He needed a-what did they call it? — detail person. He hadn’t dragged her all the way back with him, of course, hadn’t had to since she’d still been, not unconscious, more like sleeping, or whatever.

“Need that information,” he said.

Not answering.

And maybe there’d been one or two other-glitches, that was it-glitches, too, but how could they be blamed on him? Want to grab a million bucks as it flies by? Have to act fast. He’d acted fast, pounced on her as soon as he knew what was happening, soon as the other sister had left. Hadn’t expected that much resistance, who would have? That, and forgetting the note, two glitches. What if no one came down again and saw the note, or came when it was too late? Too late? A funny thought: how could it be too late?

Wasn’t like him to fret this way. He felt in his pocket: one andro left, two hits of meth. Sampled the meth, felt a little better. And not to fret, because the next moment, or not long after, Freedy heard people moving again on the far side of the wall. That meant they’d be seeing the ransom note. It also meant she could maybe hear them too, maybe cause a little trouble. He lit a candle-all he had, one little candle, her flashlight all busted during the dust-up-looked over at her, lying nearby on the dirt floor. Oh yeah, slipped his mind: her face, the mouth part anyway, was taped up with electrician’s tape from the utilities room in the sub-basement under building 31.

Mouth taped up, probably the reason she’d hadn’t been answering him, because she wasn’t sleeping anymore. Her eyes were open; eye, actually, the one that would open. Open and on him, but she was listening, he could feel it. He put his finger to his lips, letting her know it wasn’t a good time for talk, and rose-slowly, even painfully-to look through the spyhole.

Freedy saw a flashlight beam pointing at the back of the painting with his note. On track. He heard a voice, the other sister: “I suppose you’re going to say that’s her own writing.”

“No,” said someone else; the college kid. The college kid started shining his light here and there, right into Freedy’s eyes for a second. Freedy shrank back, blew out the candle. And the moment he did, the girl, the sister that was his, made a thumping sound. How? He’d thought of everything, had her arms and legs taped tight to the utility pipe. So she had to be doing it with her head. She was banging the floor with her head to get their attention. Freedy was on her with all his weight just as she did it again, a muffled thump on the dirt floor. Could they have heard? He listened; no sound came from the other side of the wall.

Freedy lay on her with all his weight. She was amazing: imagine doing that, with the way her head must be feeling after that sleep, or whatever. He lay on her, subduing her, kind of. Could have forced himself on her right there, felt like it in a way. But was that how he wanted it? No. A man like him didn’t need to force himself on a woman; all he had to do was give her a taste of what he was about, and she’d be forcing herself on him. Was it unreasonable to think that given time to forget all the unpleasantness, this drop-dead fuck-you American dream girl would see what a good match they were? He’d been joking when he’d had that thought about not trading her for a million dollars, but why did he have to make a choice at all? Wasn’t-yes! — wasn’t the hero supposed to get the money and the girl at the end?

Freedy rolled off her, got up, felt along the wall till he found his spyhole, peered through. The room was silent and dark. They were gone. That meant he had work to do.

“Need a little help here,” he said. A detail person: what he’d always been missing. “We have to plan this out.”

He relit the candle, gazed down at her. She was awake, the one eye that could open, open. It was pure gold in the candlelight, which was kind of cool, pure gold, fixed on him like that.

“We got some thinking to do,” he said. “You know how it works, right? Start with an idea, make a plan, stick to it.” He liked talking to her, liked the way his voice sounded talking to her, quiet, casual, close, like they were soul mates. Potential soul mates: he didn’t want to be unrealistic at this stage. “The idea we already know,” he said. “A million dollars. Now we just have to figure out the plan and stick to it.”

They watched each other, watched each other by candlelight. Women had a thing for candlelight. Candlelight, flowers, candy: what the hell was that all about? A man likes that kind of shit and he’s gay. So did women want their men to be gay? Made no sense.

“You like candlelight?” he said. “Flowers? Candy?”

No answer, what with the tape job. The gold eye just watched him, blinking now and then.

The idea: a million bucks, a cool million. The plan: the money would appear in that room on the other side of the wall, less than ten feet away, by dark. He’d take it, leave the girl, be in Florida the next day. Sounded good, better than good. The life he had ahead of him-he went cold, actually went cold thinking about it.