Ghouls (38 page)

“Hey, man. My buddy ova there tells me you were
givin
’ him a hard time.”

“That’s right,” Sanders said. He was looking at the dancer. His hands were in his lap.

“How come you
wanna
give my buddy ova there a hard time?”

“’Cause he’s an asshole.”

“That so?”

“Yeah, an asshole. Just like you.”

Stokes stood casually, arms akimbo. He grinned. “Hey, man. What happened ta
yer
face? Looks
lak
ya
tried ta shave with a boat motor.” Then he reached over and took Kurt’s half-smoked cigarette out of the ashtray. He held it up, watched the smoke coil toward the rafters, and then flicked an inch of ash in Sanders’s lap.

Expressionless, Sanders stood up. “That was a mistake.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Stokes came back, sharpening his grin. “See, I thought
ya
were an ashtray, on account of the fact that it looks
lak
folks’ve
been
puttin
’ out butts in
yer
face
fer
years.”

Sanders spat on Stokes’s right shoe. He must make Stokes throw the first punch.

“You must
wanna
wheelchair ta go along with that fucked-up face of
yers
, pal.”

“Outside, or right here,” Sanders said. “It’s your choice.”

“Okay, Frankenstein. Outside.”

The two men waded through tables and went out the front door.

Sanders had killed men with his bare hands before, he’d been trained to. The average person would be surprised at how easy it was. Less than thirty pounds of pressure on the proper vertebra could snap a neck. A palm-heel
upthrust
at a specific angle could shatter the pre-sphenoid bone table, behind the sinuses, and drive the fragments into the brain. A single, precise blow six inches under the armpit could penetrate a lung with broken pieces of ribs. Tracheas could be crushed with a modicum of physical force, and eighty percent of the blood supply to the brain could be occluded by two well-placed fingers. Sanders’s sole fear in a fight was maintaining the necessary level of restraint, which was harder than one might think, since he’d never been taught to fight halfway—he’d been taught to kill. He knew he’d have to be careful here. No man, Stokes included, deserved to spend a year in traction just for being a shithead.

“You are one
ugly
muthafucka
,” Stokes reflected. “And I am
personally
gonna make you
uglier.”

Outside, Sanders procured immediate tactical advantage; he stood with the light over the door behind him, and in Stokes’s face. He didn’t expect Stokes to fight fair—life had taught him to always keep an eye to the rear. He was ready when the bouncer slipped out and sneaked up from behind.

When Sanders felt the bouncer’s hand on his shoulder, he said, “Here’s one for your mother,” simultaneously driving the tip of his elbow into the bouncer’s solar plexus and then flattening his nose with a quick upward back fist to the face. Sanders did this without turning, without taking his eyes off Stokes.

The bouncer collapsed, one hand clutched at his gut, the other to his face. His nose dripped out blood like a leaking faucet.

Stokes sprang forward, the element of surprise ruined. He was very fast. He fired a fist, but Sanders’s forearm swerved up firm as a steel rod and blocked the punch. Flustered, Stokes shot out his other fist. Sanders caught it and held it in his palm, as if he’d just caught a line drive. He smiled traceably at Stokes, then shoved him backward.

“I hope you can do better than that,” Sanders said. “I know women who can fight better than that.”

Stokes stared him down, shifted his footing, which he’d barely been able to keep. Sanders waited. Behind him he heard a small crowd gathering round to watch.

Careful,
he thought.

Now, it seemed, Stokes had the advantage.

With a heavy thud, an unopened bottle of beer smacked Sanders square in the middle of the spine. Someone in the crowd had thrown it, behind his back. And it was a good throw.

He gritted his teeth, tried to will off the thudding spread of pain, but Stokes was on him before he knew it. Back-stepping, Sanders could only block some of the strikes. Stokes’s fists marauded him, and blurred his line of sight.

He continued to retreat, to bide time to clear his head. Then he planted his feet and quickly jabbed Stokes with a good, hard knife-hand to the armpit. Stokes dropped his fists, tilting.

Now Sanders had time. A fast web-chop under the jaw and a clean, solid shot to the mouth sent Stokes flying backward over two parked motorcycles.

Sanders turned to face the crowd. “Who threw the bottle?” he asked. “Come on, step right up.” But the smirking cluster had already begun to disband. The bouncer glowered at him, then staggered back inside with the others. Blood made his beard glisten red.

In groggy, cautious movements, Stokes picked himself up to his feet, his mouth a bloody smear. “Ugly cock-sure
muthafucka
,” he said, but it sounded like he was talking through a mouthful of beans. “You’ll get what’s
comin
’, jus wait an’ see.”

Sanders had to frown. “What’s wrong with your brain, son? Don’t you know when you’re beat? Your daddy must’ve had shit on his dick when he knocked your mama up with you. Go on home, or else I might have to kick your ass.”

Stokes stumbled away for his car.

A moment later, Kurt came outside. “Someone said Stokes was mixing it up. You?”

“Yeah,” Sanders said. He was disappointed with himself. “Not much of a fight. He asked for it, and he started it. Couldn’t really back down, you know? Sometimes you just have to break bad on these kids—how else will they learn to act civilized?” He glanced at his knuckle, checking for damage. “Anyway, I sent him down the road.”

Kurt seemed secretly pleased. He watched Stokes’s Chevelle rumble out of the parking lot and squeal off.

Sanders said, “I’m looking for a guy named Willard.”

“Dr.
Willard?” Kurt returned. “Early fifties thereabouts, beard, and a bank account like Andrew Carnegie’s?”

“Yeah, you got it. We’re definitely talking about the same guy.” Though Sanders couldn’t quite picture the man with a beard. “We’re old friends from way back. You know where I can find him?”

More luck. Without even pausing, Kurt gave him a current address.

“That’s great, thanks,” Sanders said. “But do me a favor, okay? If you should run into him, don’t let on that I’m in town. We haven’t seen each other in years. I’d like it to be a surprise.”

“Sure,” Kurt said. “I won’t mention it, not that I see him much myself… Say, we better get back inside before some stoner walks off with our drinks.”

Sanders smiled.

««—»»

Midnight.

“Hurry,” Cathy said.

“I am,” Lisa insisted.

“Are you sure we’re not lost?”

“I’m sure.”

“Then hurry.”

Lisa steered her father’s big silver Lincoln with a kind of naive confidence. It was a plush, comfortable car, and had a stereo better than the one in her room. Too bad all the decent FM went off the air—nothing but shit-music on the radio these days. Of course, she’d never say that to Cathy, whose favorite band was Culture Club. Lisa’s favorites were Black Flag, Sex Gang Children, and 9353.
Greaseman
, my ass,
she thought.
Not while I’m driving.

Lisa and Cathy were seniors at Bowie High. Graduation was coming up, and U of M soon after. It was an exciting time.

They both possessed an unstrained, pedestrian attractiveness, had dark, simple, shoulder-length hair, bright eyes, and a propensity for faded jeans; they could’ve been sisters. They’d been vague friends since tenth grade, better friends for a year, and special friends for a month, since the Senior-Skip party at that wimp Art
Cado’s
, when someone had suggested a mass late-night skinny dip in Artie’s indoor pool. It had begun uncertainly, first with shared, knowing glances, then accidental touching, then the rest.

“Where are we, anyway?” Cathy asked, and reached down into the bag to pull up a second bottle of Amstel. Tonight had been Lisa’s turn to buy the beer; she always bought the high-priced imported brands, which generally tasted no better than whatever was on special. But Lisa’s pop was loaded, so it didn’t matter.

“Governor Bridge Road,” Lisa answered. She wore a beige T-shirt that said MINOR THREAT across the chest. Her modest bosom made the letters look crooked. “The other side of Tylersville.”

Cathy gaped. “Tylersville! That’s where we went last time and got caught by that creepy-looking security guard.”

“Relax,” Lisa assured her. “That was private property. We’re miles away from that guy.”

“So what. The farther we are from Tylersville, the better I’ll feel. All kinds of crazy stuff happening out there.”

“What stuff?”

“Don’t you read the
Blade?”
Cathy couldn’t believe it. “First somebody dug up a grave, then a cop disappeared in the woods, and after that some hick crippled girl got abducted. It’s probably one of those southern death cults. Satanists, or something. Using ’
em
for human sacrifice.”

Lisa giggled. She felt a gentle heat between her legs. “Don’t worry. I won’t let the
satanists
get you.”

Cathy looked around impatiently, one hand resting her beer on her knee, the other squeezed under her leg. Through the passenger window she saw a high water sign punctured by a single silver-rimmed hole from a
deerslug
. It seemed to hover
postless
from the trees, a pallid, one-eyed face in the dark.

“You always pick spooky places,” she said.

Lisa grinned in the dashboard’s dim green glow. She drove more slowly as the road narrowed. She liked to make Cathy wait. For some reason it was always better when Cathy was annoyed with her.

They drove through a gnarled catacomb of trees. More signs drifted past, all bent and peppered by shotgun holes. Farther on, they crossed the tilted one-lane truss bridge, which was canopied by a framework of girders crawling with lovers’ graffiti. This was known as “Screaming Baby Bridge” to everyone at school. On nights when the moon was full, you could supposedly hear a baby screaming from the black water, because years ago a crazy woman had thrown her kid over the side. Lisa, of course, knew that this was pure bullshit. But she liked the bridge, she liked the graffiti. One night she would come out here by herself and spray-paint LISA LOVES CATHY on one of the beams.

A mile past the bridge, she stopped and backed into an un-paved road entry. She drove backward till she was sure the car couldn’t be seen from the main road. It was safe here; she knew this road was no longer in use. It led to some talc mines way, way back that hadn’t been open since before she was born.

Cathy lowered her power window. Lisa put the lights out and turned off the engine. They let the dark eddy in. Lisa kicked her shoes off and curled her toes in the carpet.

Nightsounds
grew more distinct, a quiet cacophony of peepers and cricket trills. The flood of moonlight palely lit them up and painted shimmering white tails on the hood.

Lisa crawled across the bench seat on hands and knees, and kissed Cathy’s hair once very gently. Cathy took another sip of beer. She pretended not to notice.