Edward Lee - Ghouls

“Vladimir. Right,” Kurt said, but to him Willard seemed the very last person to tolerate pets, particularly a poodle. “If I spot him, I’ll pick him up for you.”

A mounting roar came up behind them, and the sudden flash of headlights crossed with the bright blue throb from Kurt’s cruiser. A car had whipped around the bend, well past the posted speed limit, and was gone down the road before Kurt could blink. He had only time to make the passing vehicle as a dark (probably black) foreign sports car. One he’d seen before. In the corner of his eye, though, he saw Willard wave.

“My wife,” Willard said.

“Pardon?”

“That thoughtful, law-abiding person who just flew by like some winged thing out of Hades was my wife. I must apologize for her driving habits, and I’ll speak to her directly when I get home. One day she’ll learn that Route 154 isn’t her own personal autobahn.”

Kurt didn’t care. “What kind of car was that? A foreign make?”

“Yes,” Willard droned. “A Porsche. Last year’s Christmas present. She whines like the devil at the mere thought of driving an automobile that costs less than forty thousand dollars. But it was what she wanted, so I gave in. Six months from now she’ll be wanting something else.”

“That’s one nice set of wheels,” Kurt remarked as he watched the Porsche’s taillights fade.

“Not quite so nice when you consider the price of a tune-up,” Willard laughed. “Well, I should be going. It was good to meet you, Officer Morris. Have a nice evening.”

“You, too.”

Kurt stood there thinking to himself as Willard drove away. The revolving light on his roof pulsed eerie silent blue into the night, intensifying what he knew now must be fact. He was sure he’d seen the same Porsche parked at Glen’s bungalow the day they’d gotten the new cruiser. Now he knew why Glen had refused to explain his mysterious girlfriend, because she was another man’s wife.

Another set of headlights appeared, this time from the oncoming lane. A vehicle slowed and stopped on the opposite shoulder. Glen Rodz got out of his security truck and hustled across the street just as Kurt reached into the cruiser and turned off the light.

“Love that wicked blue light,” Glen said. “You just finish writing someone up?”

Kurt shook his head and stuck a cigarette in his mouth. “I saw some guy turn out of the access road, so I pulled him over. It turned out to be Dr. Willard.”

“No shit? I’ll bet he loved that, getting pulled over for driving on his own land.”

“Yeah, it’s not every day I get to make a dick out of myself in front of one of the richest men in the county.”

“What did you think of him?”

“Seems like an all right guy. Shifty, though. Something shifty about him, but then everybody’s shifty to me nowadays.” Kurt’s face turned orange when he lighted his cigarette. He wanted to mention seeing Willard’s wife pass by, to catch Glen’s reaction, but decided it was none of his business.

“I wonder why Willard was cruising around out here this late,” Glen said.

“He was looking for his dog. Said it got away a couple days back.”

“That’s funny.”

“Why?” Kurt asked.

“Willard doesn’t have a dog. He hasn’t owned a pet since he had Vladimir put to sleep four years ago.”

— | — | —

CHAPTER TEN

Vicky was beginning to think that nature had cursed her. She kept her fingers crossed all night at work, and as closing time approached, she caught herself peeking out the Anvil’s front door every few minutes, to see if the rain had started yet. The sky churned in wait, a black caul, but there was no rain as of 1:59 a.m.

The storm broke at exactly 2 a.m., the precise instant Vicky stepped out the front door.

Windblown rain swept her in gales, and for the second night in a row she had to run home through the teeming, wild dark. She swore aloud the entire way, using words that would make even Chief Bard recoil. Splashing along 154, she decided that of all the things she hated, she hated rain the most. By the time she was back at the house, she looked like she’d just been through a car wash, but without a car.

Inside now, she closed the front door like a vault cover, and sealed out the splattering, hissing rain. She turned drippingly in darkness, and when she turned on the nearest lamp, she saw that the living room was a repeat of last night, perhaps worse. Drained beer cans lay crushed about the floor. Roach ends filled an ashtray like droppings, and pot smoke lingered stalely everywhere. None of this surprised her, not even the garment she then saw at her feet. Last night it had been a bra, and tonight a pair of evenly faded designer jeans lay in the middle of the floor, like shed skin. At the Anvil, Joanne Sulley had spun her last dance at half past midnight, and had grinned leeringly at Vicky before leaving. Again, she’d come here, while Vicky was at work, and the jeans proved that Joanne was still in the house.

Vicky listened then, to verify what she already knew. Her head began to hurt from forced hearing, at the muffled sounds which filtered down from upstairs. She heard dull, intermittent thumps. The faint but viciously rapid rocking of bedsprings. A cry, a groan, a heated murmur. They were upstairs right now.

Vicky struggled to organize her outrage. Not the outrage of adultery, but the galling fact that Lenny would have his women in the same bed that Vicky had to sleep in. She decided then that she’d sleep on the ironing board before she’d ever sleep in that bed again.

She leaned back against the door, brought a hand to her forehead, and looked up without seeing. Somehow a smile came to her lips, and the relieving thought: Not much longer. The unnoticed shavings from her weekly pay were now beginning to grow to something substantial. Soon, another couple of months perhaps, and she’d have enough to take her far away.

The orgy of commotion upstairs finally maxed itself out. There was only silence in the resultant minutes. Then she listened for and eventually heard the quiet footfalls moving across the upstairs hall, over the landing, and at last down the stairs. A whisper came with their descent—“Shit, I hope she ain’t home yet”—but why would Lenny bother even to whisper? Why should he care? Vicky held her eyes on the oblong, black maw that was the bottom of the stairwell. She stood very still, her face a sketch of cold lines. She waited.

In time, two figures stepped out from the darkness, Lenny in Levi’s, naked from the waist up; and Joanne in a tight, pink tube top, naked from the waist down. Joanne’s hair hung in tousled strings; her bare, slim hips seemed even slimmer, more like an adolescent’s, as if the shadows stole substance. Her face was sharply dark and light in the dim lamp-glow. Mascara and liner made sockets of her eyes, and the harsh lipstick shone dark as blood. All that kept her from exposing herself was a tiny, pink G-string, a triangle of cupped flesh between her legs.

Both of them stopped when they noticed Vicky by the door. Silence stretched between them like putty, adding distance. Vicky felt ablaze in rage.

Finally Lenny stepped into the light. He was smiling. “What happened ta you? You get inta the shower and forgit ta take off yer clothes?”

“No,” Vicky said. “Since my fine husband was too busy, he couldn’t pick me up, so I had to walk home from work in the rain.”

Joanne stood up next to Lenny now, showing a wet, red grin. “Well, gee, Vicky, you know how it is. Sometimes people just lose track of time.”

“Then I’ll tell you what time it is,” Vicky said. “It’s time for you to get out. Go fuck your brains out someplace else.”

Joanne brought her hands to her mouth, and she looked over at Lenny with theatrical compassion. “Oh, no, Lenny. Look what we’ve gone and done. We’ve upset your sweet little wife, shame on us. Isn’t there anything we can do to make her feel better?”