The black swan (83 page)

He had believed himself better than some men, certainly better than Edmund Revanche. He had thought himself honest, decent, honorable until grief, drink, and war had turned him into a man capable of lusting after Tom's fifteen-year-old virginal daughter. Even now he had difficulty admitting his base animal lust without providing himself with heady excuses.

Ale sloshed from the mug onto Adam's tunic as a thickset man backed into him. "You God-damned bastard! Look what you did!" Adam bawled, and shoved his hand in the face of a squat ship's fireman.

"Watch who ya calls a bastard, ya motherfucker!" The man rolled forward, ramming his fist into Adam's stomach with the full force of his two hundred fifty pounds. Adam doubled over, coughing, spewing beer, and gasping for air. Then he heaved upward, the heavy mug tight in his right hand. Like a glass hammer he slammed it under the fireman's bulldog chin. The man reeled, arms outspread as he cushioned himself against the crowd.

"Kill the tar! Kill him!"

The fireman was slow to regain his feet. Belligerently Adam eyed the other men, daring them to come near him. One blond brute sneered in disdain and lifted his mug to his lips. Adam's fist shot out, smashing the man's cheekbone.

Paiii shot through Adam's arm as his knuckles connected with firm, yielding flesh and hard, unyielding bone. He fought like a madman, not even knowing whom he hit. It was a catharsis, a cleansing by pain and fire. His instinct was to hurt and be hurt.

The Red Beacon became an arena as its patrons joined the flailing, brawling melee. Men skittered across the floor on their bellies like fallen ten pins. Jaws were dislocated,

eyes blackened, skulls cracked. Knives, ice picks, awls, flashed sharp deadly spears in traces of lamplight. Blocxl dripped on the already dark-stained floor.

Dodging the enraged blond brute whose cheekbone he had smashed, Adam kicked viciously at the man's hand, missing and throwing himself off balance. The blond roared, and lunged forward to take the advantage, his sailor's sheath knife broad and sharp, Adam twisted, rolling to his left. The knife nicked the bony crest of his shoulder, lodging hilt deep in the paneling, pinning him tight to the wall by his tunic. The blond's left fist streaked before Adam's eyes as his head snapped back, slamming dizzily into the wall. The man's right fist pounded into his abdomen. Hand stiff, Adam thrust with all his strength to the man's diaphragm, bringing his knee up hard into his attacker's face as he doubled over. The big blond crumpled. Adam ripped away the fabric that held him captive, kicked aside the unconscious man, and left the brawling to the others.

His step was brisk as he swaggered into the Halyard Light. He felt good. He was a man who knew what he could do and had done it. Tonight he knew who he was: Adam Tremain, who could and would beat the devil out of any man who dared challenge or interfere with him. He had recognized the blond, a back-alley fighter who boasted of carrying no marks and having no losses. He'd carry marks now. And he'd know who put them there.

Ramona Rose was onstage, her hips swaying. Her black eyes found him in the smoky dimness. "Turn down the lamps an' light up my tassels, boys. Here comes Ramona Rose's pussycat!"

Ramona sauntered toward him. Adam kept right on walking, his eyes linked with hers until their two bodies met. Ramona stood flat against him, her bosom thrust forward, her legs planted firmly. Only a fragment of what had once been a diamond-hard beauty remained in her sensuously cruel face. "Whatta ya gonna do now, big fella?'* She tilted her head back, looking at him through deep-set shadowed eyes.

"Ay! Ramona baby!" a drunk howled. "Sweetie! Come back 'ere!"

Adam's arm shot out, catching the drunk in the throat as he staggered up to reclaim Ramona Rose.

Adam moved forward again. Ramona moved her body

in perfect timing with his, moving back as he moved forward a step at a time, until her back was to the last table. "I've danced as much as I will. Is there anything more to you, or are you all tease and no deliver?" Adam said.

She cocked her head, hands on hips. Then she thrust her head back, her pendulous breasts quivering as she roared with laughter. "What makes you think you're man enough for Ramona, Pussycat? All I've heard from you are a couple o' lousy drunken boasts. I don't see you got any-thin' no other man ain't got."

"Then call my bluff, bitch, or I'll call yours right here. I'll lay you out like a piece of meat on the table."

They had the attention of every man in the Halyard Light. At Adam's threat they began to chant, "Yeah, yeah, yeahyeahyeah," pounding their tables, urging Adam on.

Ramona Rose hesitated, her tongue making a slow, obvious circuit of her wide mouth. "Why not? I'll take you on."

Adam grasped her arm, heading for the door.

"Naw! Nawww! Do it here!" the men howled, banging the mugs harder.

Ramona Unked her arm in Adam's. "Ya all jes* be sure you're here tamorra night. I'll tell you all about it. Won't be any secrets then. Ramona Rose'll know all this boy's got an' all he wished he had."

Adam shoved her out onto the street. He followed her through a narrow maze of back streets until she entered a one-room house. She pushed the door inward. Adam closed the door, slipping the cross bar into place. He wasn't going to be caught unawares by one of her Halyard Light cronies who thought to rob him while Ramona kept him occupied.

Ramona groped across the room to light the single lamp on the table.

Adam stared, then came for her. He grasped her by the jaw, his fingers and thumb pressing cruelly against the joint until Ramona whimpered in pain. "Breathe a word about me in that dump and I'll unhinge this for you and you'll never talk again."

Ramona could barely move her head, but she nodded, eyes watering.

Adam released her. He began to look around the small room.

Ramona nibbed at her jaw, moving it gingerly. "Who in hell d'ya think y'are?"

"This is a pigsty." He kicked at a pile of discarded clothing.

"So what?"

"Clean it up! I don't like dirt."

"You don't like dirt," she said slowly and emphatically. "What a laugh. Who do you think you're kiddin'. Pussycat. I know you. You're just like the rest o' us at the Halyard Light. Dirt! We're all dirt! Scum! An' you're no better!"

He grabbed her arm, forcing her to bend toward the pile of filthy clothes. "Clean it up!"

She twisted away, throwing the clothes in his face. Quick as a cat, she leaped forward, pounding against his chest. "Get outta here! Go on! Go back to the rock you crawled out from under. Beat it!" She sidestepped his enraged swing, putting the table between them. She hurled a crock of dried, rotting chili. Adam ducked the bowl, swiping its moldy contents from his clothes and face.

Her eyes were wildly bright, her cheeks flushed, her nostrils flared. She hurled every object she could lift at him. He dodged and deflected spoons, candles, a flat iron, hats, dresses, shoes, and all her firewood.

Her rage surfeited, she slumped onto her cot laughing. "All right," she panted. "So you won't get out. What in the hell do you want?"

"Not a damned thing!" He glanced at the door. "Fresh air."

Ramona was there before Adam. "Don't be too hasty, Pussycat. Maybe you're more man that I figgered." Her long beringed fingers fanned out across his chest, pressing against him, digging through the fabric of his tunic to the flesh beneath; then her touch gentled, racing across his chest soft as the touch of goose down.

Adam felt a chill of revulsion. He removed her hands, pressing them hard against her sides. Ramona came up on the balls of her feet, arching toward him, her head back as she bit his lower lip, holding it painfully between her teeth. Adam let go of her hands, grasping both sides of her head. Deep in her throat Ramona laughed.

Adam squeezed the sides of her head, his arms trembling with the force he was using, Ramona's long fingers worked into his tunic. Her sharp-filed fingernails chilled him, making his muscles jump and twitch as she clawed along his

ribs, then moved closer, encircling him, clawing down his spinal column. Without meaning to, he released his grip.

In spite of himself, in spite of his revulsion for the woman, his breathing quickened. Hot, growing response came unbidden into his loins. She worked at the placket of his trousers, teasing, probing. As he grew hard and tumid against her hand, she demanded in her husky voice, "Kiss me, Pussycat, Don't say you don't want nuthin*. This'U say you're a liar." She pressed her hand against his hot, exposed penis. "One thing a man can't lie about, ain't it?"

"I don't want you*' he said through clenched teeth, trying to force control on his own body.

Ramona laughed, her wicked fingers moving everywhere at once. Adam hadn't the will power to move away. He writhed, squirmed, and groaned, his breath panting gasps as she had her way with him. She shrugged out of her robe. She wore only the tassels that covered her taut nipples and the G-string. She moved her hips slowly, her belly rolling forward to touch his penis, then away, touching again, caressing, her eyes sparkling in malicious knowledge. "You're a man an' I'm a woman. Pussycat. That's all it takes. That's all that matters. You don't have to like me, an' I don't have to like you. Anything else is a Goddamned lie. There's fuckin' an hurtin' an' that's all."

Adam, his eyes shut against the sight of her, licked at the blood trickling from his raw, torn lip. Ramona's voice beat at him as though she were inside his skull, pounding on him, hammering as though he were a white-hot horseshoe being beaten on an anvil. She writhed sensuously, her words bitter as gall, twisted from her own cruel despair.

"Come to Ramona, Pussycat. There's jes' you 'n' me. Your pisser an' my cunt. That's all you need. That's all I want"

Sun-darkened hands stroked him, moving along the length of his penis. Her dark hair fell over him as she bent, touching him with her lips then her tongue. Adam drew in his breath as her tongue circled and teased him. Then something inside snapped. He felt nothing.

He saw her as she was, an aging woman, whose curves were sagging rolls of flesh. Her hair was coarse and dry, her hands unclean and ill-kempt, the fingernails filed to points, weapons. She was pathetic and loathsome.

And this—this was evil and dirty. As was he. All night he had been building up to this, to coupling with her just as she said. To do it out of brutish anger and self-hatred. To use her to punish himself and to use himself to punish her.

But to hear her low, sultry voice speaking of coupling, of tearing at one another, claiming that was all there was of goodness between a man and a woman . . .

"I haven't fallen that low, Ramona. Not yet," he said almost in awe. Awkward as a schoolboy, he fumbled with his tunic and trousers.

"What's the matter with the pussycat? Can't you keep it up? I know a little trick." She went to a container of white powder. "Lick a little of this on an' you'll have the damndest, longest hard-on ever."

"No. It's not that—"

"Now, look, are we gonna fuck or ain't we?"

His anger had vanished,- wiped away by her words. Without the armor of the deep self-loathing or the anger, he couldn't talk to her. He had no means to reach into her base, primitive world. She trusted only the animal. Ramona neither knew nor understood anything but the brutish treatment he and the other men had given her at the Halyard Light.

Helpless and mute, he moved to the door. He fished in his pocket, grasping a handful of coins. He dropped them onto the table. Ramona's eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed. "What's that for? What kinda queer dick are you? What do you want me to do for all this money?"

Adam shook his head. "Nothing. Not a thing. Oh, God! Fm sorry!" He ran from the house, Ramona Rose following into the lane.

"Hey! What is this? What the hell you doin'? You! Bastard! What do you think you're buyin'?"

Her voice followed him dovra the narrow street of crowded little houses, echoing with his running footfalls, hounding him. He could still hear her when he turned the corner and zigzagged through the narrow streets. He ran until he reached the water's edge. Out of breath, his chest heaving, Adam dropped to his knees in the cool, wet sand, digging his fingers deep until the water bubbled up and covered his hands.

He shuddered, squeezing his eyes closed. What had he nearly made of himself tonight? He stripped off his clothing.

scrubbing himself with wet sand, until his skin stung and burned. He waded into the deeper water and washed again.

Adam slept aboard the Black Swan. With the first light of dawn he rose, bathed, and shaved his face clean of the unkempt beard. He studied his reflection. His face was hard and lean, the bronzed skin paler where the beard had hidden it from the sun. The flesh was drawn tight on his cheekbones. He was thinner and more angular, and to the sensitive curve of his mouth was added the unrelieved look of hurt in his eyes. Even he could see it. But now he knew he hadn't killed Dulcie, not by carelessness, not by poor judgment. He would have died to save her. And that was what had hurt so much. He never had been given the chance.

Studying his image with the same intensity he would a stranger's, he knew that by turning his life into a battleground of self-hate and guilt, he was destroying the goodness of the rest of his life, denying the few precious months he and Dulcie had had. Ramona had flung that at him with such ferocity he couldn't hide from it. He had become afraid to trust anything good or loving. But no more.

Dulcie was gone. He accepted it. But he wouldn't forget her. He would never again make of himself or his life something unworthy.

Adam dressed quickly. "Morning, R.B."

"Well! Good mawin'. Boss! Lawd, kin dat really be de man?"

"No one but." Adam tossed Rosebud one of his favorite small cigars, then squeezed the black man's shoulders. "Thanks."

"You's welcome. Boss. You sho' is welcome."

He spent the day mending fences with Ben and Glory and with the people who had been his friends before the shipwreck. That night he walked down to the Halyard Light. He stood in the street, looking in through the open door. The yellowish light of the lanterns gave the smoky haze a muted look. The men's dark-colored shirts, the bright neckerchiefs, brilliant fire colors of harlots' skirts, all grayed out. The raucous sounds and the odors of sweat and liquor wafted into the street. Ramona Rose's husky, sensual voice blared out as she sang and danced on her rickety stage. The loud jeering voices of drunken men blended in with her deep alto.