Dead-Bang (37 page)

“Bourbon and water. Thanks. Just a small—”

“A double bourbon and water,” she said, and Ronnie did it again. Bounced to a stop, turned a hundred and eighty centigrade degrees, and trotted away.

“You dear, you,” I said to Dina, and right then, through the open door, from the balmy outside to the perhaps balmier inside, pretty much in a bunch—a bouncing, jiggling, swaying, swinging and sizzling bunch—came the
other
five lovelies, lusciously and sexily and wetly gleaming, light trembling on quivering breasts, glowing on firm rounded hips, lustrous on luminous thighs.

In the lead, Leonore, dark hair clinging wetly around her quietly beautiful face, smiling with her lips and heavy-lashed eyes. Then Thérèse, red hair barely wet, winking and saying something which, though perhaps not in French, wasn't quite in English, either. Next, blue-eyed Silvia, her wild-honey hair water-darkened now but that white smile flashing as brilliantly as before. And hot-red-lipped Margarita, also verbally rippety-popping something unintelligible, sounding like—and in a way looking like—a string of scarlet-pepper firecrackers going off on the Fourth of July. Finally, sultry brunette Emilie, taking her time, walking with a sexy sway that was like a slowed down wiggle, and for some reason, or maybe no reason, with one hand lifted to cup and cover one full, firm, globular breast.

As they crowded around me I began getting a feeling that queer things were happening inside me, as if my nerves were stretching to their maximum length, then a little bit more, and snapping. As if my corpuscles were turning into tiny cubes. As if my bones were getting hot and glowing and would soon give off a pale bony light. It was all very queer. There was about fifteen minutes' worth of dialogue in fifteen seconds, and then in came Ronnie with my drink. Ronnie—the tenth of the Ten.

She bounced and bobbed to a stop and reached between Silvia's and Emilie's shoulders to hand me the booze, saying, “There,
that
ought to hit the old spot, Shell.”

I think that's what did it.

In a hot flash I knew what was wrong, or else I went into a waking coma for a minute or two. And I spoke, mainly to myself but aloud, “Of course. It's too much of too much. Man was never designed for such an excess of excess as we have here. If God wanted man to fly, would he not have given him wings? Of course. Therefore, man's built-in obsolescence guarantees that at a moment like this he will burn out. Soon I will know what my weakest link is. There will be a
pfft!
and—”

“What are you muttering about?” Lula asked.

“Drink your drink, Shell,” Ronnie said. “And I'll run and mix you another.”

“Well, maybe if I don't watch—”

“You look like you could use a couple,” Emilie said, peering up at my face.

“A couple what?”

Silvia stepped forward a little and took my hand. “Drink it and catch up with us—we're two or three ahead of you—”

“More than that.”

“—and then we'll all go sit on those big pillows. And you can tell us what happened since you left.”

“You really knew I left?”

I drank the drink. Ronnie took my glass and sped away. Silvia pulled me by the hand. When Ronnie returned with another bourbon and water, I was feeling quite comfortable—and more relaxed in the head, too. I sat on a soft orange pillow about six-feet wide, with Silvia on one side of me, Dina on the other, Britt curled at my feet and leaning on my kneecap. The other gals were sort of—well, displayed is close enough, I guess, on a couple of other big pillows and the carpet.

That is where and how Regina Winsome found us at one
A
.
M
.

Precisely. I remember it well. Hal Prince had a chiming clock that struck the hours with a pretty little
bing-bing!
when it was fixed. But it hadn't been fixed for a while—I learned later—and went more like
bnng-clnk!

That's how I know it was exactly one
A
.
M
. on Monday morning, August sixteenth. For what I heard was, “Well!”
Bnng-clnk!
“I
thought
so!”

I kind of disentangled myself a bit and looked around to see Regina, very lovely in that pink turtleneck sweater and form-fitting white skirt, glaring down at me.

“Hi,” I said. “Thought what so? By the way, how did you do that?”

“You're drinking, aren't you?”

“Of course. Listen, how
did
you—”

“I just
knew
you must have come back here, knew it was
you
, when I heard all that screaming and
laughing
. It woke me up.”

“Hell, I told the girls a funny joke. You're supposed to laugh at funny jokes. Otherwise there's not much point in it. I'll bet you could use a laugh yourself, Regina. Well, once upon a time, long ago when knights wore girdles—”

“I won't listen. I don't want to hear any dirty jokes!”

“Who said it was dirty? I said it was
funny.”

“If
you
tell it, it will be dirty.”

I was losing my euphoria. “Since you have not heard it yet,” I said gently, “did you achieve this awareness through logical deduction or while toe-dancing on the water?”

“Don't blaspheme!”

“Who's—”

“The girls told me what you did at the church! All the awful—and carrying the
cross
—”

“Yeah,” I interrupted, “and I may try to explain why there's nothing wrong with using a cross to maybe help ten tomatoes on their upward path—when you're a little less cross yourself. Incidentally, and this may or may not excite you, that's the only sore spot I've got left. On my right side and hip where I was carrying the heavy thing. Gives you something to think about, doesn't it?”

“You should be
ashamed
of what you've done.” Regina looked around, her still very lovely, even under the circumstances, purplish-blue-almost-lavender eyes wide and flashing. “And you girls, too! Sitting around naked, with a
man
. You should
all
be ashamed!”

My neck was getting a crick in it. I shifted my position so I could look with less strain at Regina. “Well, we aren't, dear,” I said pleasantly. “Would it make you happier if we were? Come on, Regina, these splendiferous ladies and I are just shooting the breeze, having fun, enjoying ourselves. Clothes on, clothes off, there's nothing for any of us to be ashamed of.”

“That's only
your
opinion.”

I smiled. “Whose should I use?”

She started to turn away. “Hey,” I said. “Let's be friends. Stick around—join us.” I glanced at the other lovelies. “Right, gals?”

There was a jolly chorus of “Yes,” and “Come on, Regina,” and “Chass, do!” and “Sit right here, honey,” and similar comments from the entire ten.

Regina got—I don't know—a sort of pleased and at the same time anxious expression on her lovely face. “I …” she began, then looked smack down at me again.
“You,”
she said, employing her previous tone, “would probably expect me to take my
clothes
off.”

“Well.… Perhaps ‘expect' is too strong a word. I might
hope
or
hint
or even
pray—”

“Oh! You're awful! You're horrible!” She stopped, started over. “Mr. Scott, you're already sitting in a room with
ten naked women
—but you still want
another
one. Isn't ten enough? Do you have to have one more,
always one more?”

I shook my head sadly. “Regina, it's a terrible and tragic thing, I know. But that's … a man for you. Ah, 'tis a rotten curse—”

“Well, it won't work with me, Mr. Scott!”

“Call me Shell, will you? By the way, I am somehow reminded of a kid I knew in school, Regina. He saved his birthday cake for a special occasion—I guess that's enough right there. Anyhow, when the Fourth of July came around, it was all dry and moldy.… Forget I mentioned it.”

I don't think she was listening with much interest, anyway. She balled her hands into fists and stamped one foot on the carpet, quite worked up. “Besides, you're just like the goose and the ganders. All the girls have
their
clothes off, and you even want me to take
mine
off, but you've still got
yours
on.”

“Well, that's different.”

“No, it's not!”

“Maybe you don't think so now, dear. But you might if I took 'em off.”

“'Ow about that? Zhe is right—” this from Thérèse—“'E '
as
'is cloze on.”

“Why should we have our glothes all off, but him—”

“Chass! Shell
desnudo tambien, o ninguna
—
totalmente o nada
—” That's what it
sounded
like.

“Regina's right, what's sauce for the gooses—”

I said, “Speaking of sauce, let's all have a little drink, what? I'll go fix them.”

Nobody paid any attention to me. They were obviously
talking
about me, but nobody paid any
attention
to me. It could make a guy start wondering about his ability to communicate. It could also, if meditated upon, maybe tell him a little bit about women. Not much, of course. But every little bit helps.

It was Silvia who brought the discussion to a stop—or a start. To the moment of truth. Or, at least, to a point of decision. She said quietly, and it just happened nobody else was speaking, so her words rang out as clear as bells, “
I
know how to settle this. And in a way that's
fair
. Shell and Regina are the only ones dressed. Regina says she's leaving and
won't
strip. So Shell can keep his clothes on and leave with
Regina
, or take them off and stay with
us?”

“Chass!”

“Dressed with the dressed and nude with the naked!”

“Nude—nuder—nudist!”

“That's fair!”

I said, “For Pete's sake, this is ridic—” but I guess you know how closely they were hanging upon my words.

Silvia said, “I suggest we vote on it.”

“Hey,” I said. “I know you must want
my
opin—”

“Right, let's vote.”

It didn't take long. I cannot report that the decision was immediately unanimous. The first vote was seven to three—not
too
bad—then nine to one, and then ten to nothing. I got the impression they were the ten, and I was the nothing. With the vote concluded, Silvia looked at me, her Capri-blue eyes sparkling as if sunlight were bouncing from them, flashing me a bright white smile, and said, “There. It's settled.”

“What do you mean, it's settled? I didn't
vote.”

“You vote now, Shell. And go, one way or the other. With Regina … or with us.”

“But.… Suffering catfish—”

“
I
didn't vote,
either!
I won't let him anywhere
near
me! He can't go with
me
—
and you can
ALL
go to hell!”

And with that Regina stamped her foot once again, turned, and stormed from the living room.

Somewhere a door slammed.

So I suppose you could almost say, even there at the end, that I didn't really make the decision. That Regina made it for me. I suppose you could, in a way.

However, I was, I realized, once again alone with the Ten, as I had been before—and yet not as before. The first time I'd been in church. This time I was, instead, in an absolutely impossible situation. Yes,
impossible
. But.…

Impossible? Yes. Of course, impossible. But, by God—or by Devil, the final verdict isn't really in yet—I was going to take a shot at it.

Yes, I was. And I did. And I guess you could say, to borrow a phrase, that it was “the shot heard 'round the world.”

We will not dwell on the remainder of those early morning hours, on those hours before, at, through, and following the dawn.

And we will merely mention in passing that, as the sun rose-slowly in the east, Shell Scott rose even more slowly in the west—and made trip number four to his Cadillac for another nip of Erovite, just in case there was
really
something miraculous in it.

We will not make dumb references, either, to the several labors of Hercules or the terrible time Sisyphus had, but will leave all that to your imagination, which may also be severely strained by the exercise.

Finally, because it isn't considered cricket to kiss—or anything—and tell, we will totally ignore the fact, well known to all of suffering mankind, that it is difficult for
one
woman to keep even a
little
secret. In fact, that is all I will say about it, for, though I at last know
why
mankind is suffering, chivalry is not yet dead … quite.

I do, however, want to make one thing perfectly clear, and if necessary I will say it again and again: Folks, there were
only
ten.

Well.…

Eleven if you count Regina, yes—but, at the risk of repeating myself, well … call it ten and a half? You see—hell, it was like this:

The cookie crumbled—which somehow sounds more poetic than “Regina Winsome cracked”—at eleven-forty-five
A
.
M
. Monday morning.

I came back from the bathroom, where I had been pouring water on my head, to find the living room empty—except for Regina Winsome. She stood in approximately the middle of the room, kind of tugging at the bottom of her pink sweater, much as she had so fetchingly tugged an eon or two back in time.

“Huh,” I said. I walked to a lime-green pillow and flopped on it. “Well, see you around, kid,” I said.

Regina didn't look the same. Of course, at that point I don't suppose much else did, either. But she was flushed, appeared feverish, her great purplish eyes almost glowing. She was also, however, smiling as if she'd just learned how it was done and liked it so much she couldn't stop.