Jan Burke - Sweet Dreams, Irene

“You want me to do it?”

“Think about it, Devon. I have to make the phone calls. If I don’t, he gets suspicious. He never asks for you or has you make the calls. You told me he pisses you off – well, now you can show him what happens when he ignores you.”

“I don’t know. Damn, if somebody sees me, I’m dead meat.”

“If we don’t have insurance, you’re dead meat anyway. Besides, I know he doesn’t even think you could do anything like this. I know you’re smart, Devon, but he doesn’t see it. That shows how really smart you are. You’ve fooled him.”

Devon hesitated, then asked in a wary tone, “The blanket is still in the Blazer?”

“Yeah.”

“Gives me the creeps. Her stinking blood all over it. I didn’t like the witch, but that was brutal.”

“I know, Devon, but we need you to do this. You’ve got to.”

I heard Devon sigh, then say, “Okay. I guess I better get going.”

More movement. Footsteps near the door to the room.

“Raney?”

“Yeah?”

“Let me take her once before I go.”

“Forget it. Goddamn, is that all you think about? We don’t have time for you to jump some broad’s bones.”

“Hey, I might not come back alive. This might be my last chance.”

“Christ, Devon, you’re not gonna die. I’m asking for something simple. No one will even know you were in town. Just do what you need to do and come back. We can’t afford to screw things up now. What if we don’t have to use the insurance? What if everything works out fine, but he finds out you did it with her? You’d be passing up a million bucks. With a million bucks, you could buy yourself a whore every day for the rest of your life.”

“Whores give you diseases. She’s not a whore.”

Raney laughed. “What, you falling in love or something? She’s too old.”

“That’s not important. I want her.”

“You want every piece of skirt you spend five minutes with. Go on, get going. Worry about her later.”

He left.

I forced myself up to the window again, seeing and hearing the Blazer leave. I went back to the mattress, trying to sort out what they had said. The most I could make out of it was that there were at least four people involved in Sammy’s murder: these two, the Goat, and someone they called the Pony Player. They seemed to trust the Goat (“our boy,” Raney had called him) more than the Pony Player. The Pony Player’s blood, as well as Sammy’s, could be found on a knife and blanket.

But nothing they had said told me much about who the other two were. I tried to silence the voices within me which said it didn’t matter what I learned about them, since I was unlikely to be able to tell anyone else. I would survive. I fell asleep.

FOR SOME REASON, Raney didn’t bother me all day. He never came in and played the dice. I was able to sleep undisturbed by anything but the discomfort of my cuts and bruises. It was dark in the room when I was finally fully awake again, but the night was moonlit and I could see outlines of what little there was to see in my simple cell.

I heard Raney moving about, and could smell broth being warmed in the next room. When I heard the bolt to the door sliding back, I closed my eyes and feigned sleep. I didn’t want to face his fists again, or even his knowing smile. I knew he stood and watched me, but he set the bowl down and left after a few minutes.

I drank it down as quietly as I could. I was hungry, and it didn’t exactly fill me up, but it warmed me. I listened as Raney paced nervously. I lay there, becoming aware that Raney was still alone – Devon had not returned. I knew he was supposed to make a phone call to the Goat, but I didn’t know the schedule. Apparently, he was late or nearly late.

I heard him move something against the door. The table. A silly precaution, given the bolt and my weakness. I began to think of that table as my ally. It would give an advantage to me.

The front door closed and I heard the truck drive off. I was going to have some time alone. It might not be more than about twenty minutes, could possibly be less, but I would make sure it was enough.

I picked up the bowl and made my way to the windows. Hopping on one foot with only one hand free was awkward, but I managed it. I pulled myself up on the overturned bucket so that I was near the middle window. I turned my face away and smashed the bowl into the thick pane. Glass flew and cold air came rushing into the room. I looked at the opening, and my hopes sank for a moment. I had hit it wrong somehow. There were no shards of the shape I wanted, and all the pieces were too small.

I had no time to waste. I hopped off the bucket, feeling small pieces of glass pierce the bottom of my bare foot here and there, but ignoring it. I moved the bucket to the right, closer to another window. I tried again. This time I didn’t swing so hard and used only the rim of the bowl to strike the glass. Success. The glass fell more than flew this time, and the pieces were bigger. I worked a triangular piece free of the frame. It was about six inches long and three inches wide at the base.

Carefully holding my treasure, I made my way back to the mattress. Lying on my back, I felt along the edge of the mattress next to the wall, finding the spot where my right hand would lay. I pulled the edge toward me and slit the cover of the mattress with the glass. I hid the shard between the thin layers of batting.

I heard the truck return. I was running out of time. I felt quickly but carefully along the floor, searching for another large shard. He had come into the house by the time I found one. He was pulling the table away as I put it under the head of the mattress. I lay back down just as the door came open.

He hadn’t noticed the windows when he drove up. But as he swung the lantern in, he began cursing me savagely. It was obviously the part of his vocabulary he had put the most time into. I wouldn’t have minded listening to him refer in novel ways to various parts of my anatomy, sexual acts, kennel residents, and members of the oldest profession. But Raney, of course, didn’t just shout.

He yanked me up off the mattress. I tried screaming at the top of my lungs, praying that with the windows broken, my voice might carry. He responded by cuffing me hard across the face.

Raney seemed to be operating on the assumption that I was as helpless as when he had Devon hold me, because the solid punch I threw into his nose caught him by surprise. I had about seven seconds of pure enjoyment out of that before he retaliated. I could only offer token resistance to him, kicking and hitting him, but mainly deflecting his fists. I held on to the vision of his bloody nose. It was worth it, I told myself, and that became my new inner litany.

I heard Devon before I saw him. He was shouting from the doorway of the room. “Stop it, Raney! Stop!” Devon raced across the room and held Raney’s arms. I stumbled onto the mattress. For a moment, it appeared that they might come to blows with one another. But suddenly Raney dropped his fists and stormed out of the room. Devon looked around at the broken glass.

“What were you trying to do? You’ll never get out of here through those windows. And now you’ll just be cold. I heard you scream when I drove up, but no one lives anywhere near here. You could scream your head off and no one would know.”

I tried to talk, but my mouth was such a mess, he had to bend close to hear me say, “Didn’t know.”

“You didn’t know what?”

“No one near.”

Raney had come back with a broom and dustpan. He threw them on the floor. “You do it, man. You pick up after her this time.”

“Okay, Raney.” Devon’s voice was coaxing. Just like when he said my name. “Okay, I will. But don’t hit her any more, okay?”