Fury on Sunday (9 page)

She shook her head, furious at herself.
This is ridiculous
, she thought.
I’m going crazy. I’m making up everything. He’s gone to Stan’s apartment because Stan asked him to
.

But
why
did Stan ask him to?

She felt caught up in a horrible vortex whose inner currents would not let her loose. Suddenly, from nothing, she had built up a monster of suspicions and fears. Was this the lot of the pregnant woman? No, she thought, she was just a suspicious woman. She was too possessive and possessiveness bred suspicions.

She closed her eyes. She must go to sleep and wait for him to come back. She must believe in her husband.

But she found herself reaching over and turning on the lamp. She found herself standing on the cold floor, shivering.
And now what
, she asked herself,
what do you intend to do; run after him?

Horribly enough, that was exactly what she wanted to do.

She almost cried aloud, so miserable did it make her that doubt persisted despite all reason. Not doubt, really, she tried to amend in her own favor; not doubt, but fear. She was afraid for Bob, so terribly afraid for him. She shuddered.

What if there were something else entirely? What if Jane had told Stan she had slept with Bob? What if drunk and mean, she had taunted Stan until the breaking point had come? What if, striking out blindly, she had accused Bob too, hoping to wound Stan by firing a buckshot charge of unfaithfulness at him, a charge that included every man she knew? Ruth knew how nasty and horrible Jane could get, how she’d say anything to hurt somebody she disliked.

She couldn’t sleep now. She hurried nervously to the bureau and pulled clothes from her drawer. She didn’t care what the reason was, she didn’t care if Bob wanted her to stay home, she had to find out why Stan had called.

The nightgown rustled to the floor and her body broke out in tiny goosebumps as the cold air covered her.

Ten minutes later she had phoned for a cab, dressed and was moving down the stairs quickly.

After he put down the phone, Stan turned away, unable to look at Jane. He felt his hands trembling at his sides.

“How
brave
,” she said, “leading him here to be killed. Your own friend.”

“What did you want me to do?” he muttered, sick with shame.

“Why don’t you—” she started.

“Shut up, both of you,” Vince said calmly.

Vince felt peace now. He felt very pleased with himself. He’d done something very clever. He had circumvented time and space. He didn’t have to leave now, didn’t have to worry about Stan and Jane calling the police. He didn’t have to go after his prey. His prey was coming to him.

Satisfied, very confident and pleased, he walked over and sat on the piano bench. He sat there looking at Jane on the couch in her almost transparent nightgown, then over at Stan, who was looking out the window, his body looking heavy and ridiculous in those stupid pajamas.

Spritely music tinkled in Vince’s mind—Liadov’s
Music Box
coupled with a Chopin
Valse Brilliante
—a dissonant but sparklingly exciting tonal companionship.

Now it was just a matter of waiting. Everything was going right for a change. His arm still hurt, but the fiery, stabbing pain was gone. It had lessened to a dull gnawing ache. He could stand that. He could stand a lot of things, as long as he knew that Bob was coming.

He held the pistol in his lap and looked at it. He tried to open it again. But there was only one hand available and his teeth gritted in irritation when the gun wouldn’t open.

Stan stood looking over the sleeping city. His eyes were bleak and his body felt tight, constrained within binds of shame and aching fear. He knew he shouldn’t have called Bob. He should have refused. Now it was too late. Bob was on his way. His body was tense with the knowledge.

And now he was an absolute coward in Jane’s eyes. That was the worst element of it. His eyes closed slowly and his chest shuddered with a convulsive breath. He had to do something. He had to get the gun away from Vince. Before Bob got there.

“I’d like to get a robe,” he heard Jane say then and he looked over his shoulder. “It’s cold in here,” she told Vince.

Vince looked at her. He didn’t want her to put on the robe. He wanted to look at her like this. It added something to the scene. It was like an exciting moment in a thriller movie and he liked the feeling it gave him.

He felt very sure of himself as he stood and walked slowly to the wall thermostat, always watching them from the corners of his eyes.

He moved the tiny, serrated wheel until the dial rested at seventy-five degrees. Then he looked over at Jane.

“There,” he said. “No need to be cold. Don’t bother to put on a robe now. You don’t need a robe.”

He felt his throat contract at the look in her eyes. He forced a smile to his lips to hide the nervousness.

“What would you do if I didn’t have this gun?” he said. He felt like exchanging sharp, bitter dialogue. It was exciting now. He told himself that. Exciting and invigorating. Everything going according to plan. He was in complete charge of the moment, master of the situation. He had beaten everyone—Harry and the guard and that girl and the man in the subway—
everyone
. They had all tried to keep him from his purpose, but he had beaten them. And now he had Jane and Stan at bay, too, and he was going to have Bob in his hands soon. Yes, everything was perfect.

“What would you do?” he said again, shaking slightly.

She turned her head away and rubbed her white forearms with her palms. Vince swallowed. “I asked you a question,” he said.

She heard the words before she knew she’d said them. “Oh, go to hell.”

She didn’t notice how Stan turned, his face tightened into a mask of fright. She felt only incredible wonder at herself.

Vince had stiffened, his hand tightening on the revolver.

“Maybe I’ll kill you,” he said, trying desperately to frighten her.

“Maybe you will,” she said and, even as she said it, felt her stomach turning over.
I must be crazy
.

Vince turned away from her suddenly. She was trying to trick him into wasting his bullets. Well, he wouldn’t waste any, he told himself and his finger twitched away from the trigger. She wasn’t worth a bullet. Not yet.

Women are expendables, Vincent, women are trying bitches.

He nodded to himself, driving confidence back. Yes, if there were any bullets left after he’d killed Bob, then Jane would be the one to get them. Right in her chest. He got a pleasant distracting sense of
warmth in his body at the thought of firing right into those arching breasts.

He sat down and looked at her. After a moment, he looked at the floor. Why did Bob take so long? Vince took a nervous breath. He had to come soon. They might find the guard, they might find Harry. The girl might go to the police. His lips started to shake a little.
No, no, don’t get upset
, he told himself anxiously.
It’s going to be all right, all right
.

He sat there looking at something red under his nails.

Stan stood by the chair looking at Jane, then at Vince. He had to do something. He couldn’t leave that look in Jane’s eyes. Even if he died for it, he had to take that look from her eyes.

But what was there to do?

Vince’s hands twitched in his lap. He heard a clock ticking in the kitchen. He
should
have done something to that girl, he thought. He could have, too; you bet your life he could have—she was that kind of girl. You could tell by looking at them. Filthy. Something about the way they talk and dress. Like Jane—sure, Jane was one of them, too. He’d like to—

No. He held himself tensely. That was wrong, it was dirty.

“What time is it?” he suddenly asked.

Stan raised his arm nervously and looked at his watch. “Twenty-five to four,” he said.

“Good,” Vince said, “that’s just what I want.”

He didn’t know what he meant by that but he liked the sound of the words. It sounded as if he had planned everything to the last detail and it was all working out perfectly. He smiled to himself and brushed back his thick hair with a casual movement of his right hand. As he did, the gun thumped down on the floor.

Stan started forward, then jerked to a stop as Vince pulled up the gun and pointed it at him.

“You wanna die?” he asked Stan, eyes glittering. “Do you?”

Stan’s throat moved and he started to shake his head, then stopped.

Jane pushed up abruptly and started toward the bedroom. “I’m going to get my robe,” she said.

Stan’s heart leaped and he felt his body tensing.

Vince watched her moving and felt heat begin to churn up in his stomach. She couldn’t do that to him! Bitch! He stood up in a quick
movement, feeling his left arm start to throb.
No, no, you have to save the bullets
.

“You’d better watch out,” he said.

“Jane, stay away from the—
phone
,” Stan said suddenly. He’d meant to say
gun
but then he decided there might still be a chance for him to get it, and he changed it to
phone
. All he wanted to do was alert Vince anyway so she wouldn’t try anything.

Jane had stopped and was looking at Stan with hate in her eyes.

“
You fool
,” she said bitterly.

Stan stood there helplessly, feeling a terrible heaviness in his stomach.

Vince pushed Jane aside now, his fingers twitching as he touched the smoothness of the gown over her warm hip. Then he turned on the bedroom light and his eyes moved around.

“Going to try something funny, haah?” he said.

“She wasn’t going to try anything,” Stan heard himself saying loudly. “Don’t do anything to her. Vince, I’m begging you.”

“Oh,
shut
up!” Jane snapped, her nerves frayed. “Haven’t you got a scrap of manhood in you?”

Stan pressed his lips together stubbornly. “I don’t want anything to happen to you,” he said.

For a long moment they looked at each other while they heard Vince tearing out phone wires.

“Something
has
happened to me,” Jane said in a low, trembling voice. “I know this is the end. I know I’m married to a—a—”

She turned away and brushed past Vince.

Vince stood watching her as she put on her robe. His throat moved as the backward movement of her shoulders made her taut breasts press against the silk. His tongue ran nervously over his upper lip, licking at the tiny sweat drops.
No
, he heard the voice in his mind,
no, that’s dirty
.

“All right,” he said, forcing the swagger back into his voice. “Now get in the living room or I’ll shoot you.”

Trembling, she walked past him. She moved to the bar and reached for the whiskey bottle. Bob was coming over. The thought made her stomach fall. It would kill Ruth if anything happened to Bob. Especially now. Her throat tightened. It mustn’t happen. It
mustn’t
.

“Make me a drink, too,” Vince said slyly.

At first she tightened and was going to tell him to make his own. Then she remembered the night in the bedroom with Vince. Vince could never have done those things sober. Maybe drink plus her body could get the gun away from him.

She hid the whiskey bottle from Vince so he wouldn’t see how much of it she poured in and how little soda after it. When she turned, he was sitting on the piano bench. She walked over and held out the glass to him. She made a point of taking a slow, deep breath as she stood before him. Her bosom rose and pressed against the dark silk.

“There,” she said, trying hard to keep the hatred from her voice.

Vince reached out casually, holding the gun and then with a downward snap of the barrel, he smashed the glass in her hand. She recoiled at the pain of the glass splinters lancing into her palm, and streaks of red drove up her cheeks.

“You—”

Vince shoved the barrel against her chest and pushed her away from him.

“Vince, don’t!” he heard Stan cry out in an agonized voice. He saw Stan move quickly to Jane and try to put his arms around her. She tore loose with a wracking sob and stumbled back to the couch, looking down at her cut palm.

“You stay away from her!” Vince ordered, and Stan backed away, face torn with conflicting emotions.

Vince looked at Jane then and smiled bitterly. “You think I’d drink that crap?” he said, voice sneering. “You think I’m dumb? Well,
you’re
dumb.”

She sat there trembling. And, within her taut fury, she felt something else—
alarm
. Vince was clever. Simple expedients would not topple his craftiness.

She wiped her hand on a cushion, teeth gritted. Her brow furrowed. Where was Bob now? If he took his car he’d almost be there. From 18th Street to 54th Street wasn’t even two miles. And in the early morning streets there would be no traffic to contend with.

Oh, God, let him have the flat tire of his life!
she prayed.

Stan was in the chair now looking over at his wife. Deep in his vitals he felt the body-wrenching shame her scorn had lashed into him. It was worse than before. Then, at least, she’d been talking of things he could accept—her unfaithfulness, her restless dissatisfaction. He allowed those things and wanted her anyway.

There were excuses for almost everything, if you looked hard enough for them. But for outright cowardice there was none. He felt his muscles tightening, feeling more than sickness now. He felt drained.

“You still managing?” he heard Vince say.

He looked up blankly. “What?”

“You still a concert manager?” Vince asked again.

For a moment Stan looked at him blankly, afraid that Vince was trying to trap him into something.

“Yes,” he said. “I am.”

A shaky smile flitted across Vince’s lips. “You still got Dinotti?”

“Dinotti?”

“You still
manage
him?” Vince’s voice was rising.

“I… yes,” Stan nodded. “Dinotti’s still with me.” What was Vince driving at? It made Stan nervous.

“How
are
things?” Vince asked.