Lizard World (34 page)

      
But then, goddamn it, before he could get any satisfaction, she just all of a sudden flicked her butt away from him -- and flew off, so that now he was flyin’ after her again and feelin’ real frustrated and wonderin’ if maybe, after all, she wasn’t nothin’ but a tease. But then she started perfumin’ him again, wigglin’ her antennas and her little pointy ass -- and divin’ down real quick as if she was comin in for a landin’ -- so that he figured that maybe she was tryin’ to tell him that they was gonna finish up their business on the ground. So he started flappin’ his wings just as fast as he could and divin’ down right after her -- which is when (when they was comin’ down toward the treetops and he could see some ladies wearin’ funny wide skirts and some gents wearin’ velvet pants and wigs and Johnny Tremain hats down below) that he realized that he musta travelled through a time warp.

      
In fact there wasn’t no doubt at all about it -- cause as soon as he got close to all them people down below, he could see for goddamn sure that one a them was that pretty little lady in the locket. But he was now concentratin’ so damn hard on not hittin’ into nothin while he was flyin’ and chasin’ tail around that little group a people, that he really didn’t pay one whole helluva lot of attention to what they all was doin’. But then, real sudden, that little flyin’ cocktease up ahead swooped down and landed -- right on top a some kinda dinky yellow flower one a them gents was holdin’ onto. So of course he figured that this was his big chance to get himself some nookie.

      
Which is why he was just now, himself, swoopin’ down and gettin’ all set to land -- when the fancy gent who was holdin’ the flower started shooin’ him away and swattin’ at the flower. Well, he didn’t hit her, but she was sure-as-hell riled up: buzzin’ in a big circle around all them people and now comin’ in close and makin’ nosedives like she had made up her mind that she was goin’ for a blood meal.

      
Meanwhile, after nearly gettin’ hit himself, he just wasnt takin’ no chances. He was makin’ damn sure he kept his distance from that fella, flappin’ as fast as he could past the steps and great big columns in front a that old mansion and then stayin’ there -- flyin’ in a holdin’ pattern way the hell up above them two black coaches. And from up there he could see her right now circlin’ around for the attack. What’s more, he could see that that snooty-lookin’ sonuvabitch who was holdin’ the flower was so worked up by whatever they all was talkin’ about, that he just didnt see her comin’ behind his back . . . and zeroin’ in . . . and landin’ on his neck. And now -- right underneath that ribboned ponytail a his -- he could see that she was bitin’ him real good. Hell, it sure did look like mission accomplished. Why, he was even -- for one split second -- beginnin’ to hope that pretty soon they was gonna buzz off together and find some little damn hideaway rock or stick lyin’ on the ground on top a which they could go back to doin’ the nasty. But then . . . that goddamn stinkin’ sonuvabitch moved his hand one whole helluva faster than -- just by lookin’ at him -- he would ever a thought he could. There just wasn’t no words to say how awful he all of a sudden felt: not only on account a him still feelin’ horny, but also cause a the terrible shock a seein’ her -- her wings and dynamite little ass -- all squashed up on that fella’s neck and then wiped off -- like she was nothin’ -- onto his hankie.

      
In fact the shock of it was so damn bad that it woke him up screamin’, which is when he realized that it wasn’t nothin’ but a dream and that he was really in his subway car layin’ on his mattress. But, even so, he was still so shook up and sad, that he just couldn’t fall back to sleep. And that’s how come (besides the fact that horsefly dreams always took it outa him) he was right now feelin’ even more tuckered-out than usual. Which didn’t at all mean that he wasn’t now and every single fuckin’ second keepin his eyes on the road -- weavin’ in and outa traffic, watchin’ out for cops, cuttin’ folks off or givin’ em the finger when he had to and, in general, doin’ his goddamnedest to stay focused on his mission.

      
“Move it, damn it!” he screamed, honkin’ the horn at some fat, bushy-headed bitch in an old Volvo up ahead who was too damn scared to merge and too fuckin’ stupid to go when she could and who by the look a all them bumper stickers had to be some kinda tree-huggin’ peacenik.

      
“You fat jackass!” he screamed at her out the window, gettin’ the hell out from behind her and (seein’ there wasn’t no one comin’ but some slow old duffer in a Buick) now floorin’ the accelerator -- jolting Smedlow backward, so that he was now no longer looking at his shoes, but at the back of his chauffeur’s head and at the windshield, where the black prow of the limo gleamed in the sunlight as they hurtled up the highway past the river.

      
It was only now, as he could see the vast silver span of the George Washington Bridge up ahead, that he felt a rush of wild hope. Was it possible? Had he tricked the little moron into doing what he wanted? Was he really going to take him home? But why? It was hard to say what kinds of criminal instincts and depraved hungers would motivate such a dull and degenerate mind. Was it only in order to steal the obvious things that any idiot would want -- his stereo, for example, or his DVD player or his titanium laptop? Or was there also something else the fellow wanted -- something far more personally offensive and kinkier?

      
Yes, of course. The cretin was evidently violent, and also something of a fetishist and kleptomaniac. It wasn’t enough that these yokels had butchered his body and taken out his brain and put it inside this corpse. No, they also had to devour his identity, accomplish his complete torment and humiliation. And that’s why he was being taken home right now: because it was particularly important that he be there as a witness -- so that he could stand by helplessly while every precious thing he had was stolen or broken or defiled . . . so that he could watch (yes, he had heard of deviants who were excited by such acts as these) while this little pervert urinated on his carpet and defecated in his tub. And undoubtedly -- as he had guessed before -- there would also be something much more spectacularly abusive even than this. For then, after having pillaged and fouled to his heart’s content, this sick little twist would wheel him into the bedroom, forcing him to watch while he had his brutish way with Agnes.

      
But oh, it would be worth it, if only this anthropoid would also help himself to all the DNA evidence -- the semen-stained bathing trunks he had stuffed in the top drawer after Bud Shimberg’s teen-aged daughter had sat on his lap while eating ice cream at the pool, the hair-clogged Tiffany silver comb-and-brush set, the dandruff-flecked cashmere sweaters and Giorgio Armani suits. For then Agnes would never be able to identify his mutilated body and prove that he was dead. And then at least he wouldn’t be cremated. And at least he would have the satisfaction of knowing that (without solid, scientific proof) she and that ambulance chaser she had hired would never be able to get their grasping hands on the insurance money.

      
But then again, he thought (as his chauffeur hunched over the wheel and the limo sped across the bridge) he himself would have to take his own dental x-rays out of the filing cabinet in the basement. Yes, otherwise Agnes would have proof. If he could only get momentary control of his fingers, he might -- just possibly -- be able to do it. And there wasn’t any doubt whatsoever that this depraved little baboon would want to go there -- not only because he would want to take a sledgehammer to the x-ray machine and drill, but also because (once he had shattered the glass in the frames and yanked them off the wall) he would want to make a special point of plucking out, ripping and wiping his fundament with the dental diploma and general-practice-residency certificate.

      
But meanwhile -- and this was the really good thing -- the brute would be so engrossed in his orgy of abuse, that he simply wouldn’t see him take the x-rays. And then he, Max Nathan Smedlow, would be safe. -- Yes, but look, just look, what they had done to him: these thighs as thin as sticks . . . these hands like buzzard’s claws. And that is when he heard the crackling again and, of a sudden, saw his right hand lifting up quite without his leave. He tried with all his might not to let it happen -- not to lose himself again, not to let the clenched fist open up like a brown and obscene flower. Yet he could not chuse but take another look at the locket in my hand -- at the portait in miniature of my exquisite grey-eyed lady.

      
For now, once again -- by doting on the beauty of her face and the alabastrine luxury of her bosom -- I did endeavour to wile away the tedium of a most exceeding overlong journey. Nor, of course, were this tiresome and interminable creaking and bouncing of my coach, this irremediable nauseousness at the stomach, this unrelieved view of sheep and boors and barn-yards out my window but the very least of my displeasures. Of these the chiefest and most nettling, of a certainty, was that my father -- the insufferable old fool -- had died ere bequeathing me my due heritance. And moreover than this -- as if it were not enough that I had lost the greater moiety of my fortune, I now must suffer to be stinted and exulted over by my blockheaded brother and his pious, small-udder’d sow. And yet even this was not quite the whole of it. For what did all the more salt my wound was the unavoidable reflection that my present sore discomfiture would doubtless pleasure my cousin Fawncey -- who, thro’ his interminable and unmanly whining to my father, had most basely empoyson’d him against me.

      
But I did purpose to get the better of them all. Of course, I doubted not that I could chastise milky Fawncey easily enough: but to suborn witnesses against my brother would require a sufficiency of money. And therefore -- in order to my taking possession of my charmer and her marriage-portion -- I did now coach it post-haste to Mistress Felsham’s brothel-house. And the more I journeyed on, the more closely I did consider how precisely I would prosecute my wooing.

      
For the Lady Lenore (as her letter did attest) did now misfortunately eye me with some measure of mistrust. The harlots’ spiteful talk had led her to suspect that I had perhaps played some small part in the planning of her present misfortune. It needed, therefore, that I find a pretext for my so unexpectedly coming for her now -- some plausible and pleasing stratagem to allay her doubts and cast the blame on Chommeley. Thus far had I advanced in my reflexions when, upon again reading of her letter, it did on a very sudden occur to me that to compass all this I would by and by have need of her old aunt. Thus instantly did I shout out to my coachman and charge him to convey me, with all speed, to Chommeley Hall.

      
But it being Lord’s Day when I finally got thither -- and finding Lady Chommeley most vexatiously not at home -- I was fain to hunt her out in church. Yet this inconveniency, in the event, did prove of great utility. For no sooner did I enter there and see the old jade on her knees, than I, too, did kneel down and clasp hands and assume the downcast attitude of prayer. And in this posture was I still when, the service over and all the creatures issuing from their pews, I made semblance as if I were inconsolably a-wailing. By this means did I contrive to attract the notice of Lady Chommeley and her vicar and some other ninnies of their set to whom, upon their inquiring the reason of my distress, I did respond that my beloved father was but very lately dead. And this did work an excellent effect. For now did commence the clucking and condolements. I could not, forsooth, have better won her trust -- of which I was much glad, by reason that I did now perceive her altogether ripe for cozening.

      
Thus presently I took occasion to ask after the welfare of her niece. The very instant I had spoke, I could full plainly see that I had hit my mark. For now recommenced the clucking -- and directly thereafter came the sniffling and the floods. And now, of course, must needs come the tale of her niece’s being stolen away by ruffians -- to the tedious whole of which I did hearken with much seeming concernment, as tho’ I were most grievously surprised thereby. And just assoon as the old bitch had done, I did not fail to startle and clap my hand on my mouth -- as if I had, on a very sudden, brought to mind a hideous remembrance the which, for Lady Chommeley’s feelings’ sake, I was most exceeding reluctant to divulge. Observing this, she did ask me what the matter was. Whereupon I declared that I would not say, for I was loth to cause her pain. And therefore she did implore me all the more to say it -- which did, in fine, so jump with my design that I did straightways feel myself much relieved of the offence which the very sight of her did give me.

      
In this wise, then, was I at the length brought to say (tho’ it distressed me much to speak it) that oftentimes, whilst we played at cards, I had heard my Lord Viscount Chommeley say how very hotly he had a mind to his young niece. But moreover than this -- such was the ungovernable urgency of his lust -- I had once heard him say that he did purpose to have her spirited away -- to the end that he might keep her for his pleasure in a bawdy-house. But this, I said, I had scarce credited . . . till now.

      
A further store of tears and perturbation did now, of course, ensue: but the short of the matter is that the fish did take the bait. I did think, I said when the sobs at last subsided, that I had heard my Lord Chommeley make mention of one most particular house of ill repute which he did believe quite safe for his lewd and filthy purposes, owing to the exemplary discretion of the bawd. Thither, I said, I would -- all alone -- this very instant betake me in order to the rescue of her niece. But it would be, I thought, more proper if her Ladyship -- and perchance a female in her service -- would company me, inasmuch as the maid would most rightly be averse from coming with me without the seemly protection of her sex. My excellent Lady Chommeley, not in the leastwise smelling out my purpose, did in course entirely agree.