The Sandman (19 page)

He walked over to his brown bag, unzipped it, and pulled out the needles. He transferred the potassium into one syringe. He held it up in his hand. So small, so clean. It was like a delicately carved work of art, and he thought it more beautiful than any sculpture; it made more sense. And better yet, it was utterly disposable. The end product of a shit-heap civilization with its taco stands, burger kings, insults to the beauty of the human spirit. Yes, and practical … not merely decorative. It worked. It did the job. As Martha Boston would find out tomorrow morning. He thought of her there, waiting for him, her face ringed by red. She looked like she was on fire … and he would be there soon to put it out.

The doorbell rang, and he jumped … placed the needles back into their case and jammed the empty potassium bottle into the case.

“Who is it?” he said, trying to sound calm.

“Peter, it’s me … Debby.”

“Debby?”

His breath was taken away, and he wanted to turn and run … yet she was there … he had missed her so …

“Peter, let me in. Really … I’ve got to see you.”

“All right,” he said, though he wanted to say, “No, get away.”

He moved toward the door and opened it. She was there, her blond hair frizzed out in a million curls, her green eyes and impossibly perfect mouth. He wanted to stop it before it got out of hand, but it was too late; she was in his arms, holding him.

“Peter,” she said, “Peter, I’ve missed you.”

“Me too … God, Debby, you feel good.”

He kissed her deeply and felt her tongue in his mouth, and suddenly he felt that he might cry. He pulled away from her, held her by the shoulders.

“I’m sorry about the fight,” he said. “God, that was silly of me.”

“It’s all right,” she said. “All that matters is that we’re together again. Really.”

“Yes,” he said. “Of course.”

Then he kissed her again, and he felt as though what she had said was true. For those few moments all the rest was gone, and he felt a perfect peace.

“Listen,” she said, holding him and walking him to the couch. “I’ve been thinking … Both of us are overwrought. You know? It’s really true. We need to get away from the hospital … from the city all together … this damned place gets so crazy.”

“That would be nice, Debby, but …”

“No buts,” she said, sitting down next to him and hugging him tightly. “My uncle has a place up the Hudson. It’s a wonderful old cabin. I used to go there as a little girl. We can stay there, sit out on the screen porch and just relax. It will be wonderful.”

“But, Debby …”

She kissed his ear and ran her hand across his leg.

“It’s all set anyway,” she said. “I know you have to work. Oh, Peter don’t be mad … I called Chung and asked him to take your place. He said he’d be happy to. He’s getting ready to go in … tomorrow morning.”

He thought of Martha Boston, sitting there waiting for him, and he felt a panic, but Debby was holding onto him tightly and kissing him and whispering his name, and he felt fulfilled, strangely fulfilled, and that scared him as well. But, God, it felt good … Besides, there was plenty of time for Martha … After her operation. It would even be safer then. Certainly, if he had tried anything during the operation he might have been caught. Yes, maybe Debby coming was his salvation. He had to plan carefully. There could never be any mistakes. Quickly, he turned and kissed her on the nose.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes … I want to go with you. When do we leave?”

“Right now,” Debby said. “Right now.”

She laughed and ran across the apartment and opened the front door. On the landing in the hall was her overnight bag.

“Pretty sure of yourself,” he said.

She smiled at him, picked up the bag, and brought it in.

“Start packing, Peter,” she said.

Beefy Sloan staggered out of Sig’s Bar and Grill, his head feeling like the Goodyear Blimp. Those five quick bullshots had done the job. Not quite the man he used to be up in Queens. He shoulda eaten his lunch, but lately his favorite bar had been changing their meats … serving stuff that tasted like Spam, and he was too much a man of habit to find a new one. Now he started across the street, his car hazy and warm-looking in the late afternoon haze.

Suddenly, he looked down the street, and there in front of him, walking toward his car was the Doc and some girl. He couldn’t believe it. He started for his car, realized that he was parked facing the wrong direction. Quickly he ran to the door, leaped in, smashing his head on the Pinto roof. Shit, they were getting away. He turned and looked back and saw the girl getting into the car, but the Doc was standing there staring at him. Oh, shit, maybe the guy spotted him. He had been nosing around the hospital … If he had, he might not go back to the goddamned room and fall for the game they were playing. Jesus, he thought of reporting that to Lombardi … It was impossible … He’d kill him, eat him for dinner, cut off his balls and hang them from the World Trade Center.

Beefy looked in the rear-view. The Doc and the broad were pulling away … Nah, he hadn’t spotted him … They were just going for a drive … Maybe for fucking dinner, right? It was dinner fucking time, right? Sure … It was all right … He’d tail them … Yeah, they thought they could get away from old Beefy, but there was no way … no way at all. Quickly he gunned the little car forward and then started a tight U in the narrow street. A woman with a Gristede’s shopping bag was coming up the block, and he was aiming right at her. “Out of the way, bitch,” he mumbled under his breath. The woman threw up her arms and dropped her groceries on the ground, then fell down amid them. Beefy laughed to himself, a deep, piglike moan which came from the back of his throat. Then the laugh turned into a belch, and the belch into a curse. “Fucking broads,” he said to himself, “always fuck you up. The world would be a whole lot better wifout ‘em.” He made the run and started down the street, two blocks behind Peter Cross.

They drove in his Mercedes up the West Side Highway, Debby chatting amiably about the glories of the countryside, but Cross could scarcely hear. Reflected in the sinking sun behind him was the battered Pinto with the huge-jowled man behind the wheel. His face looked like a piece of raw fish, and Cross knew that he had seen the face somewhere before … the hospital … he was sure of it. And the guy was not a patient … no way. No, he was a cop … He had been with Detective Lombardi the day they had come to take away Harry. He stepped hard on the gas, and the car shot ahead of the Pinto like a pinball.

“Peter,” Debby said, “aren’t we traveling a little fast? I know you’re tense, but the whole idea of this trip is for the two of us to relax.”

He looked over at her and smiled, then reached across and stroked her cheek.

“I like to drive fast,” he said. “It relaxes me.”

She took his hand and rubbed it on her cheek, then kissed his fingers. He felt the tip of her tongue, and the wetness of it traveled through his arm, to his brain, heart, and lungs. He took a deep breath.

“Debby.” He felt himself get hard. His thighs trembled a bit, and he left his hand there, so she might kiss it again.

In the rear-view he saw the Pinto moving up behind him once again.

“Jesus,” Beefy said out loud.

He had brought out his binoculars and was busy zooming in on the Doc. He couldn’t believe his eyes. The Doc was getting his fingers sucked by that chick. These Jap cameras was the real McCoy. You could see even the tip of her tongue, lashing in and out, the way her mouth made a perfect little O … Oh, shit, this was too fucking much. The Doc was a car freak. Beefy had seen them kind before, oh, yessir—remembered a guy who could only get it up if he was dressed like a Yankee catcher and his girl an ump. Another one who had to have his room covered with Big Macs, and him dressed like Ronald McDonald—but who woulda figured the Doc. Oh, shit, now he’s putting his hand on her breast … Jesus, I don’t believe it. Beefy looked down at his own crotch and noticed a mighty bulge … He shut his eyes and thought of dinosaurs coming out of a primeval ooze.

Then the Mercedes cut to the outside lane, blew a black puff of smoke in his direction, and was quickly five car-lengths away.

“Peter,” Debby said, “this is crazy … there are cars all around us … oh, Peter.”

She started to laugh a little self-consciously.

“I can’t believe we’re acting like this,” she said. “This is like something out of a porno flick. But, oh, Christ.”

His hand was rubbing her breasts, and his eyes were on the rear-view, watching, waiting for the Pinto to move up. There … he’s coming … yes …

He saw the Pinto move out into the left lane, cutting off a Porsche … and he held her nipple between his thumb and forefinger. He felt his body jerk a little, as if he had been electrocuted, shocked … and he thought this was it, this was what made it all bearable … the shocks. Anything less, and you were not quite alive.

Beefy didn’t need his glasses anymore. He was right up behind the guy. Christ, he could see her breast … He could see her eyes close and her body sink down on the seat.

“What I would give,” he said out loud.

He shut his eyes again and thought of his wife’s body … like a morass of swamp mire … shit … Then he opened his eyes, ready for more … but the Doc was gone.

He stepped on the pedal, cut to the far left lane.

Then he heard the diesel engine blow. Loud and long, like a shrieking mother-in-law on the crab-grass lawn.

“Peter,” she said, “oh, Peter, are there any cars around us … Jesus … I feel like a pervert. I do … Christ … that feels good … oh, shit …”

“Debby … Debby …” he said.

No Space now … never any Space … as long as you were out of the body, never any Space … but full, full, warm all over.

Beefy didn’t have time to look. But he heard a sickening shearing sound and saw the truck barreling down on his front side … The warm beer shot through his throat, and he screamed out and wheeled the car to the far right. The North Western Van Lines clipped his back fender, bashing it loose … Beefy’s car was pushed forward as though a giant hand had descended from the sky. He looked to his right and saw the tan Porsche, only a few inches away. The driver had dropped his Glen plaid racing cap, and his eyes and mouth were the same size. Beefy stepped on the gas as the Porsche slammed on the brakes, and the Pinto went skidding across the last right-hand lane, hit the macadam doing ninety-five, and went off a four-foot curved shoulder, across a rocky field toward a huge gas tank which lay fifty feet away.

“Agggghhhhhhhh,” Beefy screamed. “Aghhhhhh.”

He was aware that he sounded like Deputy Dog on TV, but after the scream a curious thing happened. He simply assumed that it was all over. He began to relax. The car rolled forward, faster and faster. Beefy held tight to the wheel and began to hum “Mother Macree.”

“Jesus, look!” Debby said. “There’s been an accident. That man is headed for the gas tank over there … I don’t think he is going to be able to stop …”

“No?” said Peter, rubbing his hand on her thigh.

“No,” said Debby. “Jesus … Oh, Jesus … that feels good … Peter … we shouldn’t … It’s going to be horrible. Oh, Christ.”

The Pinto rolled faster and faster. Beefy Sloan began to scream about ten yards away from the huge Beta Oil sign. He hit the brakes and felt his foot go through the floorboards … Then he shut his eyes and started to cry.

His car hit the chain-link screen and knocked it down as though it were a loose front tooth. Beefy heard the sickening crumble of wire, saw the gas tank come closer, and held on.

One foot away from the tank, the Pinto’s brakes decided to work. The car stopped as neatly as though it were pulling into a Jack-in-the-Box. Beefy could hear the sound of his heartbeat reverberating through the front seat. It was so loud that for a second he thought his radio was on, and he reached down to turn it off. Then he looked up at the Beta Boy, a huge dark blue drop of oil with long curling lashes and a killer grin.

Big red letters hung over Beefy’s brow.

Better Try Beta.

“You bet your ass,” Beefy said. “You bet your ass.”

He got out of the car and looked down at his pants. They were dark, and when he looked back up at the sign, he thought he saw it wink.

Dr. Oscar Chung felt as fine as any day in his entire life. He whistled Barry Manilow all the way to the hospital, skipped down the hall like a kid racing down the block to buy Marvel Comics, and changed into his OR greens with the enthusiasm of a first-year man. Things were going right for him … he had a girlfriend named Wanda Latowski, they were going bowling later that night, and he was going to be friends with the mysterious Peter Cross.

He wished he’d done a favor for Cross a long time ago, for he had always been attracted to him. Indeed, among the other anesthesiologists, Cross had attained, without his knowledge of course, something of a star status. He was brilliant, aloof, and sometimes wore capes. By comparison the others were all pikers. Chung knew Cross was interested in philosophy. Perhaps they would read the I Ching together. Chung practiced it regularly but told nobody. Doctors were supposed to be rational. But not Cross. He held his individuality aloft, as if it were a banner. Now Chung walked down the hall, his drugs in his Moroccan bag, and headed for Martha Boston’s room. It was going to be all right. He and Cross would be pals.

He nodded to a nurse and entered the room. The red-haired woman looked at him and seemed disturbed.

“Who are you?” she said.

“I am Chung,” said Chung. “Dr. Chung, your anesthesiologist.”

“Dr. Chung?” the woman said nervously. “But I was supposed to see Dr. Cross.”

“Alas,” Chung said, “he has gone away … with his girlfriend to have a vacation. You don’t have to worry though, you’re in good hands.”

“That’s why she’s worried,” said a voice.

Chung gave a small gasp of surprise as Dr. Robert Beauregard and Detective Lombardi walked out of the adjoining room. Behind them Chung thought he saw another man with a camera.

“Is this some kind of surprise?” Chung said. “I love surprises.”

“Yeah,” Lombardi said. “This is a surprise. Believe that, pal.”