Run With the Hunted (64 page)

God damn, thought Ted, I've
got
to have this one. Please give me
this
one!

“Oh,” said Victoria, “I'm so
excited!
”

The toteboard flashed the number.
Four
.

Victoria screamed and jumped up and down gleefully. “We won, we won, we WON!”

She grabbed Ted and he felt the kiss on his cheek.

“Take it easy, baby, the best horse won, that's all.”

They waited for the official sign and then the tote flashed the payoff. $14.60.

“How much did you bet?” Victoria asked.

“$40 win,” said Ted.

“How much do you get back?”

“$292. Let's collect.”

They began walking toward the windows. Then Ted felt Victoria's hand in his. She pulled him to a stop.

“Bend over,” she said, “I want to whisper something in your ear.”

Ted leaned over, felt her cool pink lips up against his ear. “You're a … magic man … I want to … fuck you …”

Ted stood there grinning weakly at her. “My god,” he said.

“What's the matter? Are you afraid?”

“No, no, it's not that…”

“What is the matter then?”

“It's Marie … my wife … I'm married … and she has me timed down to the minute. She knows when the races are over and when I'm due in.”

Victoria laughed: “We'll leave
now!
We'll go to a motel!”

“Well, sure,” said Ted …

They cashed their tickets and walked out to the parking lot. “We'll take my car. I'll drive you back when we're finished,” Victoria said.

They found her car, a blue 1982 Fiat, it matched her dress. The license plate read: VICKY. As she put her key in the door, Victoria hesitated. “You're really not one of those kind, are you?”

“What land?” Ted asked.

“A belt-whipper, one of those. My mother had a terrible experience once…”

“Relax,” said Ted. “I'm harmless.”

They found a motel about a mile and a half from the track. The Blue Moon. Only The Blue Moon was painted green. Victoria parked and they got out, went in, signed in, were given Room 302. They had stopped for a bottle of Cutty Sark on the way.

Ted peeled the cellophane from the glasses, lit a cigarette, and poured a couple as Victoria undressed. The panties and the bra were pink, and the body was pink and white and beautiful. It was amazing how now and then a woman was created who looked like that, when all the others, most of the others, had nothing, or next to nothing. It was maddening. Victoria was a beautiful, maddening dream.

Victoria was naked. She came over and sat on the edge of the bed next to Ted. She crossed her legs. Her breasts were very firm and she looked as if she was already aroused. He really couldn't believe his luck. Then she giggled.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Are you thinking about your wife?”

“Well, no, I was thinking about something else.”

“Well, you
should
think about your wife …”

“Hell,” said Ted, “
you
were the one who suggested fucking!”

“I wish you wouldn't use that word …”

“Are you backing out?”

“Well, no. Listen, you got a cigarette?”

“Sure…”

Ted pulled one out, handed it to her, lighted it as she held it in her mouth.

“You've got the most beautiful body I've ever seen,” said Ted.

“I don't doubt that,” she said, smiling.

“Hey, are you backing out of this thing?” he asked.

“Of course not,” she answered, “get your clothes off.”

Ted began undressing, feeling fat and old and ugly, but he also felt lucky—it had been his best day at the track, in many ways. He draped his clothes over a chair and sat down next to Victoria.

Ted poured a new drink for each of them.

“You know,” he told her, “you're a class act but I'm a class act too. We each have our own way of showing it. I made it big in the construction business and I'm still making it big with the horses. Not everybody has that instinct.”

Victoria drank half of her Cutty Sark and smiled at him. “Oh, you're my big fat Buddha!”

Ted drained his drink. “Listen, if you don't want to do it, we won't do it. Forget it.”

“Lemme see what Buddha's got…”

Victoria reached down and slid her hand between his legs. She got it, she held it.

“Oh oh … I feel something…” Victoria said.

“Sure … So what?”

Then her head ducked down. She kissed it at first. Then he felt her open mouth and her tongue.

“You
cunt!
” he said.

Victoria lifted her head up and looked at him. “
Please
, I don't like dirty talk.”

“All right, Vicky, all right. No dirty talk.”

“Get under the sheets, Buddha!”

Ted got under there and he felt her body next to his. Her skin was cool and her mouth opened and he kissed her and pushed his tongue in. He liked it like that, fresh, spring fresh, young, new, good. What a god damned delight. He'd rip her! He played with her down there, she was a long time coming around. Then he felt her open up and he forced his finger in. He had her, the bitch. He pulled his finger out and rubbed the clit. You want foreplay, you'll get foreplay! he thought.

He felt her teeth dig into his lower lip, the pain was terrible. Ted pulled away, tasting the blood and feeling the wound on his lip. He half rose and slapped Victoria hard across the side of her face, then backhanded her across the other side of the face. He found her down there, slid it in, rammed it in her while putting his mouth back on hers. Ted worked away in wild vengeance, now and then pulling his head back, looking at her. He tried to save it, to hold back, and then he saw that cloud of strawberry hair fanned across the pillow in the moonlight.

Ted was sweating and moaning like a high school boy. This was it. Nirvana. The place to be. Victoria was silent. Ted's moans lessened and then after a moment he rolled off.

He stared into the darkness.

I forgot to suck her tits, he thought.

Then he heard her voice. “You know what?” she asked.

“What?”

“You remind me of one of those quarterhorses.”

“What do you mean?”

“It's all over in 18 seconds.”

“We'll race again, baby,” he said …

She went to the bathroom. Ted wiped off on the sheet, the old pro. Victoria was rather a nasty number, in a way. But she could be handled. He had something going. How many men owned their own home and had 150 grand in the bank at his age? He was a class act and she damn well knew it.

Victoria came walking out of the bathroom still looking cool, untouched, almost virginal. Ted switched on the bedlamp. He sat up and poured two more. She sat on the edge of the bed with her drink and he climbed out and sat on the edge of the bed next to her.

“Victoria,” he said, “I can make things good for you.”

“I guess you've got your ways, Buddha.”

“And I'll be a better lover.”

“Sure.”

“Listen, you should have known me when I was young. I was tough, but I was good. I had it. I still have it.”

She smiled at him, “Come on, Buddha, it's not all that bad. You've got a wife, you've got lots of things going for you.”

“Except one thing,” he said, draining his drink and looking at her. “Except the one thing I really want…”

“Look at your
lip!
You're bleeding!”

Ted looked down into his glass. There were drops of blood in his drink and he felt blood on his chin. He wiped his chin with the back of his hand.

“I'm going to shower and clean up, baby, be right back.”

He walked into the bathroom, slid the shower door open and began to run the water, testing it with his hand. It seemed about right and he stepped in, the water running off him. He could see the blood in the water running into the drain. Some wildcat. All she needed was a steadying hand.

Marie was all right, she was kind, kind of dull actually. She had lost the intensity of youth. It wasn't her fault. Maybe he could find a way to stay with Marie and have Victoria on the side. Victoria renewed his youth. He needed some fucking renewal. And he needed some more good fucking like that. Of course, women were all crazy, they demanded more than there was. They didn't realize that making it was not a glorious experience, but only a necessary one.

“Hurry up, Buddha!” he heard her call. “Don't leave me all alone out here!”

“I won't be long, baby!” he yelled from under the shower.

He soaped up good, washing it all away.

Then Ted got out, toweled off, then opened the bathroom door and stepped into the bedroom.

The motel room was empty. She was gone.

There was a distance between ordinary objects and between events that was remarkable. All at once, he saw the walls, the rug, the bed, two chairs, the coffee table, the dresser, and the ashtray with their cigarettes. The distance between these things was immense. Then and now were light years apart.

On an impulse, he ran to the closet and pulled the door open. Nothing but coat hangers.

Then Ted realized that his clothes were gone. His underwear, his shirt, his pants, his car keys and wallet, his cash, his shoes, his stockings, everything.

On another impulse he looked under the bed. Nothing.

Then Ted noticed the bottle of Cutty Sark, half full, standing on the dresser and he walked over, picked it up and poured himself a drink. And as he did he saw two words scrawled on the dresser mirror in pink lipstick: “GOODBYE BUDDHA!”

Ted drank the drink, put the glass down and saw himself in the mirror—very fat, very old. He had no idea what to do next.

He carried the Cutty Sark back to the bed, sat down heavily on the edge of the mattress where he and Victoria had sat together. He lifted the bottle and sucked at it as the bright neon lights from the boulevard came through the dusty blinds.

He sat, looking out, not moving, watching the cars passing back and forth.

—
H
OT
W
ATER
M
USIC

well, they said it would come to

this: old. talent gone, fumbling for

the word

hearing the dark

footsteps, I turn

look behind me …

not yet, old dog …

soon enough.

now

they sit talking about

me: “yes, it's happened, he's

finished … it's

sad …”

“he never had a great deal, did

he?”

“well, no, but now …”

now

they are celebrating my demise

in taverns I no longer

frequent.

now

I drink alone

at this malfunctioning

machine

as the shadows assume

shapes

I fight the slow

retreat

now

my once-promise

dwindling

dwindling

now

lighting new cigarettes

pouring more

drinks

it has been a beautiful

fight

still

is.

of course, I may die in the next ten minutes

and I'm ready for that

but what I'm really worried about is

that my editor-publisher might retire

even though he is ten years younger than

I.

it was just 25 years ago (I was at that
ripe

old age of 45)

when we began our unholy alliance to

test the literary waters,

neither of us being much

known.

I think we had some luck and still have some

of same

yet

the odds are pretty fair

that he will opt for warm and pleasant

afternoons

in the garden

long before I.

writing is its own intoxication

while publishing and editing,