Nightrunners (10 page)

........

And later back at The House the girl Clyde and Brian had shared would start to wail and fight invisible harpies in her head, and Clyde would take her to the basement for a little swim.

The body of the girl on the mattress would follow suit. Neither managed much swimming; and there would be a series of unprecedented robberies that night all over the city; and in a little quiet house near Galveston Bay, an Eagle Scout and honor student would kill his father and rape his mother; and an on-duty policeman with a fine family and plenty of promotion to look forward to would pull over to the curb on a dark street and put his service revolver in his mouth and pull the trigger, coating the back windshield with brains, blood and clinging skull shrapnel; and a nice meek housewife in a comfortable house by Sea Arama would take a carving knife to her husband's neck while he slept; would tell police later that it was because he said he didn't like the way she'd made roast that night, which was ridiculous since he'd liked it fixed exactly that same way the week before; and in their tiny apartment, Monty and Becky Jones would frantically attempt to make love, but Becky wouldn't be able to find the mood and Monty wouldn't be able to find an erection. It seemed like an awful bad moment for the two of them, but this was because they had no idea how bad things were going to get.

All in all, it was a strange night in Galveston, Texas, A lot of dogs howled.

(2)

THE COUPLE

ONE

In early May, Becky and Montgomery Jones went to Galveston Beach. They took picnic supplies, a lusty appetite and a lot of nostalgia with them. Galveston Beach was where they had met years back. It had been May then too, and hot.

As Montgomery had admitted to Becky many times, the first thing he had noticed about her that day was the black string bikini she was wearing. He also admitted there had been quite a number of other bikinis he had taken notice of, but hers had quickly become his favorite when she'd walked by the towel where he was lying and he had watched her pass, enjoyed the shimmying twin moons of her ass split by the black eclipse of her bikini.

Because of this view, he had been forced to quit lying on his stomach, as things downstairs had rapidly become uncomfortable. But when he rolled on his side he found that his bathing suit was flying at half-mast, and had he rolled on his back, it would have looked as if he had erected a small pup tent for hamsters over his hips. So, he was forced to roll back on his stomach and ride the rail. From there he continued to watch the eclipsed moons until they pendulumed out of sight, were lost among other bodies, flashes of towels and rubber life rafts moving to and from the sea.

The bikinis that came after were merely wonderful or incredible, but nothing like the one that had fallen out of sight. Try as he might to focus on other nice hips and long, brown legs, those dual eclipsed moons his eyes had lost would not leave his mind.

Gathering up his suntan lotion, radio and towel —which he had draped across his shoulder in such a manner that it fell across his chest and erection— he made his stiff-legged way up the beach in search of that absolutely perfect bikini.

And lo and behold off the starboard bow, thar she blows, two soft, eclipsed moons were sinking slowly into the sea.

For the first time Montgomery began to think with the big head instead of the little head.

Lifting his eyes beyond the natural homing point of sexual interest, he saw an absolutely gorgeous waist, bosom and face—for she had turned to climb toward land again, and as she came the water foamed mad-dog spittle around her legs and hips and she was as beautiful and mythical as that painting of Venus exploding from the sea. Oh yes, she was one fine-looking woman.

No. Fine wasn't the word.
Fine
meant: of superior quality or excellence. That had a near proper ring to it, but it just wasn't enough.

How about perfect? That was in the ballpark, but no closer to home plate than the home run fence— well, maybe, just maybe, as close as center field, but not an inch closer.

Nope, the English language, the French language, the German language, etc., etc., were short on words for a woman like this.

She had . . . magic.

Then he thought: Maybe I'm just being starry-eyed. Up close she'll probably have the kind of teeth you could open a can of green beans with, or maybe a nice, bright bald spot on top of her head, or the kind of bad complexion that begins at the bone.

He decided he had to get closer, secretly fearing that up close his angel would turn out to be a moon howler.

Glancing down at his swim trunks he said to himself, "Lead on, Little Head."

As he went splashing out into the water he thought about the old trick of running into her and saying, "Excuse me, didn't see you wading there," but considering there were only three other people in the water in the immediate area, and they were about thirty feet away, the idea lacked charm.

No, he was going to be cool about this. Splash out to her like some sort of noble water god, make some cute Gary Grant remark and win her heart and soul immediately.

He threw out his chest.

Oh God, the sunlight was hitting her hair and she was absolutely gorgeous; it looked as if there was a halo around her head, and

He fell.

No way to turn it into a dive and look casual. He had stepped right into a nice, slushy mass of sand, turned his ankle and fell.

One moment he's looking at the angel, next he's coughing salt and water and there's a sand burn on his knee and shin.

A wave washed over him, carried him back a yard, pulled his bathing suit down over his buttocks. He clutched at the suit, pulled it up as the water pushed him to shore.

He sat up. His towel was stuck to him and he had lost his suntan lotion and radio, but at least he had managed to pull his suit back up and, maybe, with more than a little luck, the angel hadn't gotten a flash of his lily-white ass sticking out of the waves. He hoped not. It was bad enough to be clumsy and lose your radio and suntan lotion (why hadn't he remembered he was carrying the goddamned radio and suntan lotion?), but to expose one's lily-white to an angel was unforgivable.

He looked around and saw her.

The angel was on the beach and she was looking at him. She had her hand over her mouth, was bent double and laughing; the worst kind of laugh, one of those sneaky kind you hold behind your hand so it won't explode like a bomb.

A wave came in, and his suntan lotion floated up. Neat. The radio cost $19.95 and what floats up? The $2.98 suntan lotion.

He clutched the lotion, looked at the angel. He could see teeth on either side of her hand now, and he was surprised to discover that a person really could grin from ear to ear.

This was beginning to make him a little angry.

He stood up, moved his foot about in the sand, hoping to find the radio. No luck.

"Pardon me," he said, looking at the angel, who looked close to hyper ventilation.

"Wha . . . ?" she tried.

He slapped wet sand from his legs and bathing suit, waded to shore. The towel clung to him like a sash. The suntan lotion was clutched in his hand like a blunt instrument—well, it was a thought.

"Pardon me," he repeated. "Someone tell you a good joke?"

"Unnuh," she said, and it just got out from behind her fingers before she exploded into hysterical laughter.

"No, huh?"

"... n ... no." Didn't she know it was impolite to drop to one knee laughing?

"No?"

She took a deep breath, stood. "Just
saw
a good joke."

"Nice."

"Are you always so clumsy?"

"Mostly just when I'm trying to impress good-looking women."

"I'm impressed."

"I can see that. Works every time."

"I see. You see an attractive woman and you fall down?"

"It's a killer, isn't it?"

"Have you thought about using leg braces when you go girl watching?"

"The braces rust in this salt air."

"So you don't think leg braces would solve the problem?"

"Speaking of legs, that's certainly a nice pair you use to carry you around."

"Oh, so it's my legs you noticed, nothing else?"

"How can I tell you I like your brain when we haven't even met. All I know is what I see, and I like that. But maybe I'll find out you're not too bright and that you have disgusting bathroom habits."

"Oh, I don't think you'll have to worry about finding out much."

"Uh-oh, hurt your feelings. I'm just saying I'd like to find out if you're . . . smart."

"I'm smart enough to see where this is going. And that's what I'm doing, going."

"Guess I said something wrong, showed my ass?"

"Yes, you have—in more ways than one. And it's very white and not very good-looking. I think I saw pimples on it."

"You did see . . . ?"

"It was hard to miss."

"Look, I was just trying to impress you— "You have, all right. Go fish for your radio."

"Look, look, don't walk off. I fell. You saw my ass, and then I tried to impress you with my suave recovery, and I was doing okay until I had a male chauvinistic relapse, the stuff about your legs. But I mean . . . you wouldn't wear that if you didn't want men to look . . . shit."

"Open mouth, insert other foot." She bent to pick up a large blue towel from the beach.

"That yours?" he said, and immediately regretted it.

"No, I steal these when I come across them. Sew them together and they make fabulous bedspreads, great Christmas gifts."

"I don't seem to be doing so good."

"No, you don't." She began walking away.

"Hey," he said, bounding after her, "you can't walk away like that."

"Oh no, here I go."

"You can't do that. Don't walk away like that."

She turned a furious face on him, slung the towel over her shoulder. "How about like this?" And she began taking long, ridiculous strides.

Montgomery couldn't help himself. He began to laugh.

She went a few more steps, turned with her hands on her hips, then she laughed.

"Hey, you," she said, "walk this way," and she started off across the sand taking those ridiculous strides, and Montgomery followed mocking her walk, and pretty soon they were side by side laughing.

They stopped walking.

"Look," Montgomery said, "I'm sorry. Let's start over."

"All right."

"My, but don't I know you from somewhere?"

"No. My name is Becky Shiner."

"And my name is Montgomery Jones."

"Have you considered changing it?"

"Often."

"That's one of the worst names I've ever heard."

"Not quite. The middle name is Buford."

"You're pulling my leg?"

"I wish I were . . . shit."

"Maybe later."

"Yeah?"

"Down boy."

"Sorry."

"Montgomery Buford Jones. Hummm. God, that's awful! Are you a second or a junior?"

"Actually, I'm a junior, but forget that."

"Montgomery Buford Jones, Jr—"

"You're not forgetting."

"—will you buy me a hot dog?"

"You kidding? I'll rob the goddamned stand if you want me to."

"I'll settle for you buying me a hot dog. We'll knock over a filling station later."

Not long after, Montgomery got money from the glove box of his car. They bought and ate hot dogs, they walked along the beach holding hands, and talked until the sun pooped out and the moon checked in. They discussed everything. Politics. Religion.

He told her about his part-time job and she told him about her part-time job, and he told her how he was finishing up college in a year at the University of Houston, and she told him she was doing the same and wasn't it amazing that they had never met, and he said, I'll say, and wouldn't it be nice if we took some classes together, and she said yeah, and then he told her things about himself, and how he had tried out for sports in high school and had fallen down a lot, and she told him how she had been on the track and swim team and had been quite good at both, and for him not to take this personal, but it didn't look as if he had become any more athletic than before, considering his dramatic entrance into the water today, and he laughed at that, and they continued to talk about anything and everything until it was very, very late. They went to his apartment in Houston that first night.

........

on me.

on me, Monty.

"Monty. Oh, Monty."

"What?"

"Remember me, your wife? The girl lying next to you on the beach towel? Will you put some suntan lotion on me?"

"Shit, I'm sorry. I was daydreaming."

"About long, brown legs, I bet."

"Yep."

"Well, you shit."

"About yours."

"I bet."

"I was."

"Don't snow me, Mr. Montgomery Buford Jones, JR."

He put an arm around her. "I was thinking about how we met."

She wrinkled her nose at him. "Oh, and how was that? I don't seem to remember.

Seems you've always been with me. Like a birth defect."

"There's always plastic surgery."

"You'd just leave a scar."

"I hope so."

"Were you really thinking about my legs?"

"Yep."

"Do you ever think about other women's legs?"

"God forbid."

"Monty, come on."

"Sometimes?"

"Do you ever think about more than the legs?"

"Sometimes."

"Shithead."

"Sometimes."

"Well, did you know I masturbate to Tom Jones albums when I'm home alone? I just think about that gyrating hunk of man and blammo, double, triple orgasms."

"Sounds nice."

"It is."

"Right there in the living room, huh?"

"Yep, on the couch."

"I see, and I thought that smell was cat piss on the cushions."

"You shithead."

"Sometimes."

"All the time. Here, put this lotion on me."

"How's that?"

"Ummmm."

"Becky?"

"Yes."

"What did you ever do with that black string bikini?"

"It's at home."