Blood of the Impaler (7 page)

Malcolm looked away from the mirror and tossed his brush onto the bureau. "A little black book? Jerry, you've got to be kidding!"

"Hey, there's a lot to be said for tradition. Where's your . . . ?" He looked around the room and saw a telephone lying on the floor beside the bed, half-covered with discarded, soiled clothing. "Here we are," he muttered, picking up the phone and placing it on his lap, after which he began to turn through the worn pages of his address book. "Let's see, let's see . . . Vanessa, Vanessa, where is Vanessa?"

Malcolm sat down on the edge of the bed opposite Jerry, shaking his head and grinning with bemusement. "I feel like I'm in an old rerun of
Dobie Gillis."

Jerry ignored him as he dialed the phone number and then waited for the call to be answered. After a few moments he said, "Swen? Howya doin', man. This is Jerry, Vanessa's friend. Is she home? Thanks." He waited for a moment more, then said, "Hiya, kid, it's me, Jerry. Listen, are you still involved in that whatchamacallit thing you were . . . Yeah, yeah, I know, I'm sorry . . . No, of course not, I'm not making fun . . . Sure . . . Sure . . . Yeah, I'm sure that Leon Trotsky was the true prophet of the masses . . ."

"Great," Malcolm muttered. "A Trotskyite. Just what I need."

". . .Yeah . . . Yeah . . . Sure . . . No rest until final victory. . . I know, I know . . . Listen, Vanessa, I'm calling because I have a friend who sort of feels the same way you do about . . . Yeah . . . Yeah . . . I know, I know . . . He thinks Stalin was a son of a bitch, too . . . Sure . . . Well, if you're not doing anything right now, we could . . . Yeah, yeah, great. We'll see you in about a half hour or so." Jerry hung up the phone. Turning to Malcolm, he said, "Now let me tell you a few things about Vanessa. . . ."

"A Trotskyite, Jerry? A Trotskyite, for Christ's sake!"

"So she's odd," he said defensively. "The important thing is that she says she thinks of having sex as a revolutionary act, like striking a blow against the bourgeois order or something like that. You'll have no problem getting her into bed, believe me, I promise you.
Everybody
gets it on with Vanessa. It's like shaking hands to her. Believe me, I know it for a fact."

Malcolm considered this. "You've made it with her?"

"
Everybody's
made it with her."

"And you didn't have any trouble getting her into bed?"

"
Nobody
has any trouble getting her into bed."

"Well . . . I don't know . . ."

"Malcolm," Jerry said, reaching over and placing his hand on his friend's arm, "trust me, okay?"

W
hen Malcolm awakened, the pain in his side and in his jaw almost sent him sinking back into unconsciousness. The first thing he noticed as his mind cleared was that his head and neck were encumbered by a brace of some sort, and that long strips of thick bandages were girdling his midsection. He tried to clear his vision only to find that his left eye had swollen shut. He looked up groggily and saw Jerry Herman staring down at him with concern. "Wh . . . what . . . ?" he rasped.

"Take it easy, Mal," Jerry said. "Just take it easy. You're okay, basically. You have a couple of bruised ribs and loose teeth, and your neck's gonna be sore for a while, but other than that you're okay."

"Wh . . . where am I?" he asked with obvious difficulty.

"In St. John's Hospital. The doctor says you should stay here overnight, but your sister says she's coming over to take you home."

"My sister . . . Rachel . . . ?"

"Yeah, I called her up. I hope that's okay. I mean, I
figured that your family ought to know where you are. She's gonna be here soon with one of those private ambulances." "What happened . . . what happened to me?" Malcolm asked, his voice a strained whisper.

"Don't you remember?"

He tried to shake his head but found that the neck brace prevented him from doing so. "No," he whispered.

"What
do
you remember, Mal?" Jerry asked. Neither he nor Malcolm noticed Rachel as she entered the room behind them, her face frozen in its customary half-smile, half-grimace, with just a hint of concern in her eyes.

"I remember . . . I remember talking to . . . to that girl . . ."

"Vanessa, yeah, right. Do you remember Swen, her roommate's boyfriend?"

"Swen . . . ?"

"Yeah, great big blond guy, big muscleman-type guy. Do you remember me and him sitting down and having a few beers while you went into the bedroom with Vanessa?"

"Yes . . . yes, I think so."

"Okay, good. What else do you remember?"

"I remember . . . going into the bedroom and . . . and getting undressed while she was getting undressed . . . and we kissed . . . and I started feeling her a little, you know?"

"Yeah, yeah, and then what?"

"I don't know . . . it's all so foggy."

"Try to remember," Jerry prompted. He did not turn to see Rachel covering her open mouth in outraged shock at what she was hearing.

"We lay down on the bed . . . I started kissing her all over . . . and she was . . . she was, you know, kissing me all over." He shut his eyes tight. "I don't know, Jerry I just can't remember. I think I was starting to get excited . . ." He furrowed his brow painfully. "I can't remember, Jerry, I just can't remember. Can't you tell me anything? How the hell did I wind up here?"

"I'm not sure what happened, not all of it, anyway," Jerry said. "All I know is, I was sitting there shooting the breeze with Swen, and I heard Vanessa scream. We ran into the bedroom and found you pulling back her head by the hair, trying to bite her throat out."

Malcolm stared at him dumbly through his one fully opened eye. "Wh . . . what!"

"Yeah, honest to God, man! There was blood all over the
place. You must have bitten her pretty bad. She was punching at you and kicking at you and you just kept trying to get at her neck."

"I . . . I don't believe it!"

"I didn't believe it either, man!" Jerry nodded. "You were really acting nuts. When Swen pulled you off her, you tried to bite him, too, and he started using you like a punching bag, but you just kept coming back at him." He paused. "That was pretty stupid, Mal. I mean, the guy's gotta be three times your size."

"Get out of here!" Rachel screamed.

Jerry spun around just in time to deflect the large, heavy purse that was swinging toward him. He jumped to his feet and stepped back from the bed.

"You little bastard!" Rachel yelled. "Taking my brother to see a woman of that type!"

"Hey," Jerry said, "take it easy! I didn't do anything. He's the one who started the trouble!"

Rachel began swinging the purse at him again, driving him toward the door. An orderly came forward, prepared to intervene, but Jerry managed to get out the door, which swung shut behind him. "Jesus!" he muttered. He pushed the door open slightly and looked back in. "Malcolm!" he called out quickly, "I'll come by and see you in a couple of days!" He allowed the door to close again before Rachel, screaming like a banshee, reached it.

"Hell of a day," Jerry muttered to himself
as
he left the hospital. "Guess I might as well forget the movie." He waited patiently at a bus stop and then rode the bus up the boulevard to Forest Hills. He got off near Continental Avenue and walked into the Strand, a good hour before he had to report to work.

Holly Larsen was already there, drinking a soda and tapping her fingernails on the bar top. "Shit," he said to himself aloud.

She looked up at the unintelligible mutter and smiled slightly. "Hi, Jerry. Where's Mal?"

"Uh . . . well, I don't know."

"I called his house, but nobody's answering. I mean, I guess his grandfather is home, but I didn't let it ring too long. I didn't want to make the old guy get . . ." She paused as she noted the odd expression on Jerry's face. "Hey, what's the matter?"

"Oh, uh, nothing," he replied, very unconvincingly.

She became suddenly alarmed. "Jerry, what's going on? Has something happened to Malcolm?" Jerry sputtered and muttered and she slid off the barstool and approached him worriedly. "Jerry, dammit, what's happened?"

"Well, I don't know if I should tell you. I mean, maybe Mal'd want to tell you. I mean—"

"Tell me what!" she cried. "Is he hurt? Was he in an accident?"

Handling this real good, Jer
, he said to himself.
You didn't have to say anything; all you had to do was act cool and ordinary, and everything'd be fine. Now she's half-hysterical and you either have to lie through your teeth or tell her the truth. Or at least part of the truth.

"Jerry, you better start talking and pretty damn fast, or I'm gonna scratch your eyes out!" she said angrily.

He took only a few minutes to outline the events of the day, the reasons for his part in them, and the results of their brief if unfortunate adventure. He had expected her to be angry at him, but he had not expected her to assume a look of pained concern. "You had a lot of nerve, Jerry," she said.

"I know," he replied, a bit surprised that this was the extent of her ire. "I was just trying to help. I mean, it was all my idea, not his. Don't hold it against him."

"Why the hell not?" she sniffed, though she knew that she would have felt angrier had she not felt so worried. "Am I supposed to accept it, even if I don't like it?" She shook her head. "I hope he's not having a breakdown or something. If he can't even remember what happened . . ."

"If so, it's a hell of a breakdown! I mean, you can't imagine what he looked like in there! He was like really nuts, you know?"

She shook her head again. "No, your perception is flawed."

"Huh?"

"You must have misunderstood what was happening. I know Malcolm. He wouldn't act that way."

"Hey, Holly, I know what I saw!"

"Maybe she tried to knock him out and rob him or something," she mused, ignoring Jerry. "Maybe he was defending himself against her. You can't tell. What you just told me can't be true."

"But if he's having a breakdown . . ."

"No, that was a silly thought. Breakdowns don't just happen," she said with certainty. "They build up over long periods of time and are detectable before they occur. Okay, we've been having a little trouble in bed the last few nights. That's normal, common. Doesn't mean anything." She looked at Jerry. "You're mistaken, Jerry. There has to be an explanation for what happened."

The clarity of the events was already blurring sufficiently in his memory for Jerry to begin to doubt them. "You think so?" he asked. "Maybe so. Maybe it was just a fight and it just kind of looked like . . . maybe so . . . Vanessa is a little strange."

Holly picked up her purse from the bar and asked, "Where is he? St. John's?"

"Probably home by now, or on his way at least. Rachel came to get him. The doctor said he should stay for observation, but she wouldn't hear of
it."

Holly nodded. "What about the police?"

"What about 'em? What are you talking about?"

"Well, aren't they going to prevent his release from the hospital? Doesn't he have to be placed in custody or something?"

Jerry laughed. "Oh, I understand. Listen, Holly, the cops have nothing to do with this. Vanessa didn't report this to them."

She frowned. "Are you sure? I mean, what you just described to me sounded like a pretty serious assault. If anybody did that to me, I sure as hell would—"

"You're not Vanessa," Jerry interrupted. "Vanessa is a revolutionary nut, you know? I think she was born ten years too late. She should have been a Weatherman in the sixties, blowing up draft boards and stuff like that. She isn't gonna go running to the cops."

Holly considered this. "You sure?"

"Absolutely."

"Good," she said, walking toward the door of the Strand. "I'm going over to his house to see him."

Jerry coughed nervously. "You gonna tell him that I told you what happened?"

"Sure I am," she replied. "Why not?"

Jerry nodded. "Well, I guess that's okay. I mean, if you aren't mad at him, I guess he can't be mad at me."

"What makes you think I'm not mad at him?" she asked. "For that matter, what makes you think I'm not mad at you?
And what makes you think that I give a shit whether he gets mad at you or not?"

Jerry grimaced and then whined, "Hey, Holly, I was just trying to help, you know? I was trying to help both of you."

"I think I can live without your kind of help," she said as she opened the door.