Hostage - Страница 36

'They would have killed you as soon as you got into the ambulance. Better to stay in here.'

Dennis glanced at Mars, then walked away, pissed that Mars found him so obvious. Mars was getting to be a pain in the ass. Dennis sat at Smith's desk and put up his feet.

'Staying here sucks, Mars. You might like it, but I want to get the hell out. I bought us some time, now we've got to figure this out. Any ideas?'

He looked from Mars to Kevin, but neither of them answered.

'Great. That's just fucking great. If anyone decides to help, just speak up.'

Dennis turned to the girl and spread his hands.

'All right. Your old man's out. You happy now?'

'Thank you.'

'I'm fuckin' starving. Go back in the kitchen and fix something else. This time don't throw it on the floor. And make some coffee. Make it strong. We're gonna be up all night.'

Mars took the girl back to the kitchen.

When they were gone, Dennis noticed that Kevin was staring at him.

'What?'

'We're not going to get out of here.'

'For chrissake! Please!'

'Mars and I don't care about the money. You won't let go of it and that's why we're still here. There's no way to get away with it, Dennis. We're surrounded. We're on fucking television. We're fucked.'

Dennis pushed out of the chair so quickly that Kevin jumped back. He was sick of dealing with their negativity.

'We're fucked until we think of a way out, asshole. Then we're not fucked, we're rich.'

Dennis stalked around the desk and went to the den. The smell of gasoline was strong there, drifting in from the hall, but he wanted a drink, and he wanted to be in the den. The den was his favorite room. The dark wood paneling and plush leather furniture made Dennis feel rich, like he was in the lobby of a fine hotel. And the bar itself was beautiful: Beaten copper that looked bright and shiny and a thousand years old, bar cabinets inlaid with frosted glass, and stainless steel fixtures gleaming with the overhead light. Dennis selected a bottle of Stolichnaya vodka, then found ice in a small refrigerator and glasses on a smoked glass shelf. He poured a short one, then went back around the bar to sit on a stool. Dennis peeled a hundred-dollar bill from the roll in his pocket and tossed it on the bar.

'Keep the change, m'man.'

Dennis drank most of the vodka, loving the way it raked his throat, a stiff belt that pushed its way into his head. He refilled his glass. The clean cold vodka burned his nose and made his eyes water. He rubbed his eyes, but couldn't make the water stop.

They lived in a one-bedroom apartment above an Exxon station, Dennis, age eleven, Kevin, two years younger, and their mother, Flo Rooney. Dennis didn't know her age then or now; their father was long gone, a pothead named Frank Rooney who fixed transmissions and didn't pay child support. Well, fuckit, they weren't married anyway; common-law.

Dennis shoved Kevin toward the bedroom, Kevin with big bug eyes like they were gonna pop from his head, scrambling backwards because he was scared. They were supposed to be sleeping; the world was dark.

'They're doing it.'

'Nuh-uh. Stop saying that.'

'Can't ya hear'm! They're doin' the nasty. Let's go see.'

They had lived in more apartments than Dennis could remember, some for just a week or two, once for almost a year; dingy places with stained ceilings and toilets that ran. Flo Rooney usually worked a job, once she worked two, and more than once she had none. There was never enough money. Flo was a short woman with a body like a bowling ball, Q-Tip legs, and bad skin. She liked her gin and smelled of Noxzema. When she got in her mopes and had too much gin, she would bitch to the boys that she didn't have enough money to keep them, that she would have to put them in a home. Kevin would cry, but Dennis would pray: Please, please, put me in the fuckin' home. It was always about money.

Dennis shoved Kevin toward their mother's bedroom door. Both boys were trying to be quiet because she was with a man she had brought home from the bar. This month she was working as a barmaid, next month it would be something else, but there was always a man. She called them her 'little pleasures.' Dennis called them drunks.

'Don't ya want to see'm doin' it!'

'No!'

'You said you did! Listen to what he's doin' to her!'

'Dennis, stop! I'm scared!'

The scent of sweat and sex hung sharp in the air, and Dennis hated her for it. He was jealous of the time she gave them, and humiliated by what she let them do, and by what she did to them. He was ashamed, but at the same time excited. Her gasping, grunting curses drew him.

He pushed Kevin again, this time more gently.

'Go on. Then you'll know.'

This time Kevin went, creeping to the door. Dennis stayed on their sleeper couch, watching. He wasn't sure why he was pushing Kevin so hard to see; maybe he wanted Kevin to hate her as much as he did. With their father on the bum and Flo working, Dennis usually had to see after his younger brother, making their breakfast and getting them to school, seeing that Kevin got home okay and making dinner. If Dennis had to be Kevin's father and mother, there wasn't room for another. Maybe that was it, or maybe he just wanted to punish her.

Kevin reached the door and peeked inside. Dennis knew that something nasty was going on because he could hear the man telling her what to do. She hadn't even bothered to close the door.

Kevin watched for the longest time, and then he stepped into the door, right out in the open where their mother could see.

Dennis whispered loudly.

'Kev!'

Kevin sobbed, then began to cry.

Inside the room, the man yelled, 'Sonofabitch! Get the hell outta here!'

Kevin stumbled backward as the man came lurching through the door, naked and with a huge glistening erection. He was carrying his jeans.

'I'll teach you to watch, you little shit!'

He was a big man, his body white and arms dark, coarse and hairy with tattoos on his shoulders and a loose flabby gut. His eyes glowed bright red from booze and pot. He stripped a thick leather belt from the jeans, then chased after Kevin, swinging the belt. Its buckle was a great brass oval inlaid with turquoise. The belt came down, cracking across Kevin's back, and Kevin screamed.

Dennis drove into the man as hard as he could, flinging punches that had no effect, and now the belt was his, snapping across him over and over and over until all his tears were gone.

She never came out, and after a while the man went back into the room. Her little pleasure.

'Dennis?'

Dennis cleared his eyes, then slid off the bar stool.

'Be quiet, Kevin. I'm not leaving here until I can take that cash.'

Dennis went back to the office and unplugged the phone. There was no point in talking to the cops until he knew what to say. He wanted the money.

KEN SEYMORE

The Channel Eight news van was parked at the edge of the empty lot. The reporter was a pretty boy, couldn't have been more than twenty-five, twenty-six, something like that, who got off telling everyone he went to USC. Trojan this, Trojan that, God's a Trojan. A Trojan was a fuckin' rubber, but Seymore didn't say that. The reporter pool complained all evening because there were no toilets; the local cops promised that a honeywagon was coming out, but so far, zip.

Seymore asked the guy if it would be all right to step behind their van, take the lizard for a walk.

The pretty boy laughed, sure, but watch where you step, they got a regular lizard trail back there. Dick. Seymore thought he was the kind of guy who ordered chocolate martinis.

Seymore stepped behind the van where no one could see him and did two spoons of crank. It hit the top of his head like a blast of cold air and made his eyes burn, but it kept him awake. It was after two and all of them were fighting the hours. Seymore noted that the Asian chick with the hot ass kept ducking into her SUV and had a fine set of the sniffles to show for it. A regular one-woman Hoover convention.

Coming out from behind the van, Seymore saw the Channel Eight reporter conferring with his producer and cameraperson, a man with hugely muscled arms. They looked excited.

Seymore said, 'Thanks, buddy.'

'No problem. You hear? They're getting one out of the house.'

Seymore stopped.

'They are?'

'I think it's the father. He's hurt.'

A siren spooled up, and they all knew it was the ambulance. Every camera crew in the lot hustled to the street in hopes of a shot, but the ambulance left from a different exit; the siren grew louder, peaked, then faded.

Seymore's phone rang as the siren dopplered away. He answered as he walked away, lowering his voice but unable to hide his irritation. He knew who it was; he started right in.

'Why the fuck I gotta hear this from a reporter? Fuckin' Smith comes out, for chrissake, and I gotta learn about it last?'

'Do you think I can get to a phone any time I want? I'm right out front in this; I have to be careful.'

'All right, all right. So tell me, was he talking? The guy here says he was hurt.'

'I don't know. I couldn't get close enough.'

'Did he have the disks? Maybe he had the disks.'

'I don't know.'

Seymore felt himself losing it. Fuckups like this could cost him his ass.

'If anyone should know, it's you, goddamnit. What the fuck are we paying you for?'

'They're taking him to Canyon Country Hospital. Go fuck yourself.'

The line went dead.

Seymore didn't have time to get pissed about it. He called Glen Howell.

Hostage - Страница 36

KEN SEYMORE

PART THREE. THE HEAD