“Ahhh, that feels good,” she said. “Get in here. I’m ready for a good fucking.”
She put her cheek against the wall and closed her eyes. I pulled her razor from my back pocket. With one motion I grabbed her hair and drew the blade across her throat. For an instant she stretched her neck out, exposing it even more, and then she slumped quietly to the bottom of the tub. I turned off the water and went into the bedroom, dropped the razor into her nightstand.
I cleaned up and finished dressing in the clothes that I had arrived in the day before. I kissed Teena’s forehead. I kissed Melinda’s hand and held it to my mouth for a long time.
Downstairs I lit a small fire on the love seat in the living room, then went to the kitchen and turned on all the gas jets. On my way out to the garage I stopped and, as an afterthought, picked up my leather jacket.
I backed the Jag out of the drive and looked for but did not see the German shepherd. It suddenly occurred to me how very old he must have been. As I put the Jag into gear, my eyes paused at the mailbox, an unlikely witness. I pulled away and, driving down the road, watched it disappear in the rearview mirror. I thought about how badly I needed to sleep.
Pretty little parasite
by David Corbett
Fremont
One hand on her hip, the other lofting her cocktail tray, Sam Pitney scanned the gaming floor from the Roundup’s mezzanine, dressed in her bright red cowgirl outfit and fresh from a bracing toot in the ladies’. Stream-of-nothingness mode, mid-shift, slow night, only the blow keeping her vertical — and she had this odd craving for some stir-fry — she stared out at the flagging crowd and manically finger-brushed the outcrop of blond bangs showing beneath her tipped-back hat.
Maybe it was seeing her own reflection fragmented in dozens of angled mirrors to the left and right and even overhead, or the sight of the usual trudge of losers wandering the noisy mazelike neon, clutching change buckets, chip trays, chain smoking (still legal, this was the ’80s), hoping for one good score to recoup a little dignity — whatever the reason, she found herself revisiting a TV program from a few nights back, about Auschwitz, Dachau, one of those places. Men and women and children and even poor helpless babies cradled by their mothers, stripped naked then marched into giant shower rooms, only to notice too late — doors slamming, bolts thrown, gas soon hissing from the showerheads: a smell like almonds, the voice on the program said.
Sam found herself wondering — no particular reason — what it would be like if the doors to the casino suddenly rumbled shut, trapping everybody inside.
For a moment or two, she supposed, no one would even notice, gamblers being what they are. But soon enough word would ripple through the crowd, especially when the fire sprinklers in the ceiling started to mist. Even then, people would be puzzled and vaguely put out but not frightened, not until somebody nearby started gagging, buckled over, a barking cough, the scalding phlegm, a slime of blood in the palm.
Then panic, the rush for the doors. Animal screams. Blind terror.
Sam wondered where she’d get found when they finally reopened the doors to deal with the dead. Would she be one of those with bloody nails or, worse, fingers worn down to raw gory bone, having tried to claw her way past so many others to sniff at an air vent, a door crack, ready to kill for just one more breath? Or would she be one of the others, one of those they found alone, having caught on quick and then surrendered, figuring she was screwed, knowing it in the pit of her soul, curled up on the floor, waiting for God or Mommy or Satan or who-the-fuck-ever to put an end to the tedious phony bullshit, the nerves and the worry and the always being tired, the lonely winner-takes-all, the grand American nothing...
“Could I possibly have another whiskey and ginger, luv?”
Sam snapped to, turning toward the voice — the accent crisply British once, now blurred by years among the Vegas gypsies. It came from a face of singular unlucky pallor: high brow with a sickly froth of chestnut hair, flat bloodless lips, no chin to speak of. The Roundup sat just east of Las Vegas Boulevard on Fremont, closer to the LVMPD tower than the tonier downtown houses — the Four Queens, the Golden Nugget — catering to whoever showed up first and stayed longest, cheap tourists mostly, dopes who’d just stumbled out of the drunk tank and felt lucky (figure that one out), or, most inexplicably, locals, the transplant kind especially, the ones who went on and on about old Las Vegas, which meant goofs like this bird. What was his name? Harvey, Harold, something with an H. He taught at UNLV if she remembered right, came here three nights a week at least, often more, said it was for the nostalgia.
“You are on the clock, my dear, am I right?”
She gazed into his soupy green eyes. Centuries of inbreeding. Hail, Brittania.
“I’m pregnant,” she said.
Come midnight she began looking for Mike and found him off by himself in the dollar slots, an odd little nook where there were fewer mirrors and the eye in the sky had a less than perfect angle (he thought of these things). He wore white linen slacks, a pastel tee, the sleeves of his sport jacket rolled up. All Sonny Crockett, the dick.
“Hey,” she said, coming up.
He shot her a vaguely proprietary smile. His eyes looked wrecked but his hair was flawless. He said, “The usual?”
“No, weekend coming up. Make it two.”
The smile thawed, till it seemed almost friendly. “Double your pleasure.”
She clipped off to the bar, ordered a Stoli-rocks-twist, discreetly assembling the twelve twenties on her tray in a tight thin stack. The casino’s monotonous racket jangled all around, same at midnight as happy hour — the eternal now, she thought, Vegas time. Returning to where he was sitting, she bowed at the waist, so he could reach the tray. He carefully set a five down, under which he’d tucked two wax-paper bindles. Then he collected the twelve twenties off her tray, as though they were his change, and she remembered the last time they were together, in her bed, the faraway look he got afterwards, not wanting to be touched, the kind of thing guys did when they’d had enough of you.
“Whoever you get this from,” she said, “I want to meet him.”
From the look on his face, you would’ve thought she’d asked for the money back. “Come again?”
“You heard me.”
He cocked his head. The hair didn’t budge. “I’m not sure I like your attitude.”
She broke the news. In the span of only a second or so, his expression went from stunned to deflated to distinctly pissed, then: “You saying it’s mine?”
She rolled her eyes. “No. An angel came to me.”
“Don’t get smart.”
“Oh, smart’s exactly what I’m going for, believe me.”
“Okay then, take care of it.”
With those few words, she got a picture of his ideal woman — a collie in heat, basically, but with fewer scruples. Lay out a few lines, bend her over the sofa, splay her ass — then a few weeks later, tell her to take care of it.
“Sorry,” she said. “Not gonna happen.”
He chuckled acidly. “Since when are you maternal?”
“Don’t think you know me. We fucked, that’s it.”
“You’re shaking me down.”
“I’m filling you in. But yeah, I could make this a problem. Instead, I’m trying to do the right thing. For everybody. But I’m not gonna be able to work here much longer, understand? This ain’t about you, it’s about money. Introduce me to your guy.”
He thought about it, and as he did his lips curled into a grin. The eyes were still scared though. “Who says it’s a guy?”