Norman Partridge - Slippin' into Darkness

Marvis eyed Bat-his little-old-man gut, his dirty fingernails. The very idea of Bat Bautista with Amy Peyton was ludicrous. A guy like Bautista wouldn’t have idea one of how to get with her.

The words came out of Marvis’s mouth automatically. “Amy isn’t bad.”

“Whoa!” Derwin said. “Is this the voice of experience, Marv?”

Marvis didn’t answer directly. “It wasn’t as if we had a big affair or anything. I only saw her twice, when she was between husbands. She worked at the bank across the street from my camera shop, and we kind of hit it off. I took her out to dinner one time. A real nice place up in the Napa Valley. I picked the right wines, ordered for her. She liked that. Then the other time I took her to a photography exhibit over in San Francisco. I knew the photographer, and we went to a private party at the Mark Hopkins afterward and-”

“Yeah,” Griz said. “Okay. I don’t want to hear about silverware and place settings. What I want to know is… did you chop her beef?”

Marvis laughed. Did you chop her beef? How delicate. “That’s why you guys would never get a woman like Amy.”

The four jocks were speechless. Marvis felt wonderful. Every one of them was dying for a little taste of Amy Peyton. Every one of them was dying for something he’d had. They were envious, and it showed. Serious salivation-it was practically dripping off of them.

Derwin, who lived in a shack and mowed lawns for a living, stared at Marvis’s bedroom furnishings as if he were calculating the cost of every stick of furniture. Griz Cody sat there, too fat and too ugly and too crude to attract any woman. Todd Gould, with his perpetually wrinkled brow, thumbed through Marvis’s photography books as if they were written in hieroglyphics-just another anonymous balding guy who didn’t have much upstairs in more ways than one. And Bat Bautista, who spent his evenings with a fat wife and kids who irritated him, was the perfect picture of a guy who would never get a taste of a woman like Amy Peyton in this lifetime. They were flat-out, locked-jaw envious. And it was wonderful. Marvis grinned at them, thinking, Oh, how the mighty have fallen. He didn’t pass up the opportunity to rub it in. “Amy is a high-strung lady,” he concluded somewhat mysteriously. “Okay-in every way-but not someone I wanted to get involved with long-term.”

Amazing, those words spilling from his lips. Marvis had never before thought of himself as a master of understatement. In truth. Amy Peyton had three topics of discussion: money, Amy Peyton, and money. It had taken Marvis all of two dates to figure that out, after which he stopped returning her calls.

But he wasn’t going to share that information with the A-Squad. He preferred to allow their filthy imaginations to take the ball and run with it. He grinned.

“Just look at this shit-eater,” Derwin said.

Well fuck me.” Bat Bautista shook his head. “Marvis Hanks. Man, you’ve changed. I mean, I always knew you had some guts, deep down inside you. It took some guts not to give up that film of April when we came looking for it. And it took some guts not to spill your guts about what happened that night in Todd’s basement. I mean, you could have sunk all of us if you’d ever turned over that film to anyone. Even to your father-he was a cop, right? You could have given it to him, knowing that he would have found a way to protect you. You could have screwed us, big time.”

Marvis smiled at Bat’s misguided worries. He never would have turned over the film. If he’d done that, it would have been gone forever.

Bautista’s eyes were red with beer and fatigue. Words spilled from his lips in a thick blur. “And now you’re screwin’ fine women like Amelia Peyton. Drivin’ a Jaguar. Got your own business-”

Marvis shrugged. “It’s just the breaks of the game. I got lucky.” But he didn’t mean what he said. What he really wanted to say was. Take a long look at what I’ve got. See what idiots you’ve been. See how miserably you’ve screwed up, while old punk Shutterbug, old skinny Shutterbug who you used to bodyslam on cement floors, little old faggot Shutterbug who couldn’t book a ride on April Destino’s train, look what’s become of him.

Suddenly Marvis was ready to tell them everything. How much money he had, and how he earned it, and how much of it he didn’t dare show. Forget the Jag-he longed to brag that he could easily afford a Testarossa. He ached to tell them about the teenage girls; he wanted to describe in great detail how Shelly Desmond peeled off her clothes in front of his video cameras, and how she did each and everything that he told her to do.

What would they say if he spoke of those things? How would they react if he told them about the leather mask scarred over with silver zippers that he wore on the dangerous nights when he joined Shelly in front of the camera?

He wanted to find out in the absolute worst way. He stood staring into the closet, his gaze aimed at two shoeboxes shoved toward the back of the middle shelf. His hand went to the one on the left, the one that held several neatly sorted stacks of twenties and fifties. But ultimately his fingers settled on the box on the right.

Yes. The statement would be just as clear. He opened the box and tossed a Ziploc bag heavy with cocaine to Bat Bautista. “You fellows brought the beer. Here’s dessert.”

To a man, the A-Squad whooped and hollered, just as Marvis had expected. Derwin ran to the kitchen, returned with a spoon, carefully dipped it into white powder, and snorted. A stupid grin spread on his face, his black nose powdered white. “This,” he said, “is living.”

Derwin passed the Ziploc to Marvis, and he took a taste. Then he handed it to Griz Cody and returned his attention to the large cardboard box that lay on the floor.

One last roll of film waited for inspection. Marvis uncoiled the leader. Raised the first frame to the dim light, saw dull green felt and parchment-yellow flesh.

“This is the one,” Marvis announced. “April Destino.”

“All right!” Griz shouted. “Memory fuckin’ lane!”

Marvis grinned as the drug sizzled through him. He was almost ready to share another secret. The words stumbled on the tip of his tongue. He almost said, There’s a sequel to this, you know. April, Part II. It’s on video. Let’s go down to the basement. I’ll cue it up…”

But the Ziploc returned to his hands. Another toot and his mind raced forward. And when he passed the coke to Bat he saw that the moment had passed, anyway, because Todd Gould had turned his attention from the photography books to an old high school yearbook, the 1976 edition, to be exact.

“Check this out!” Todd shoved the book under Derwin’s dusted nose. “Check out what April wrote!”

Derwin’s lips formed silent words, snaking into a leer that spoke volumes.

“Give me that,” Marvis demanded.

Derwin tossed the book to Griz. Marvis grabbed for it, but Griz dodged sloppily and stumbled into the hallway.

Reading. Laughing.

“Showtime!” Griz yelled, slapping the dusty blue covers closed. “Let’s roll. It’s showtime!”

Marvis made another grab for the yearbook, but Griz flipped a blind toss over his head and the book landed in the hands of Bat Bautista, who charged past Marvis and didn’t stop until he hit the front lawn.

Marvis hurried after him.

A pair of headlights bloomed across the street.

“Shit!” Squinting, Bat shielded his bloodshot eyes with the yearbook. Harsh white light played over the glossy pages. The car didn’t move. Marvis did. As he walked toward Bat Bautista, the headlights washed his black face, his white, coke-smeared nose.

The car sat in Joe Hamner’s driveway, but it didn’t belong to Joe. It rolled slowly across the sidewalk, onto the street, and passed under a streetlight. One person sat behind the wheel. Small shoulders, long hair. A woman. Had to be. Marvis could see that, but that was all he could see.