Before I Kill Again!, page 5
Do you realize you could’ve killed her? Actually killed her?
Yes. Yes I know. You don’t have to keep on reminding me. I’m fully aware of it, thank you. And what’s worse, I think I wanted to kill her. I actually wanted to! I wouldn’t have cared even if I had either. I needed her raincoat that much!
That’s why I must never go out again. Not by myself or with a girl, because next time I might kill her. I honestly really might.
There it goes again.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
Harry, most likely. I promised to go to the show with him tonight. There’s a horror movie on at the Hollywood Theater and we both love horror flicks. But it looks like rain again. See all those big dark clouds around the moon. I’m sure it’s going to rain. So, guess I’ll stay home and—
And what? Wear it? Parade around the room in it? Or better yet, lie there in bed with it wrapped around your naked body, with the collar up and the belt pulled tight around your waist the way Kathleen always wore it, and play with yourself until your eyes fall out?
No. I never said that.
No. But you thought it, were thinking about doing it, weren’t you?
No. I—
Oh, come on now, be honest. Don’t lie to yourself. If that’s not what you intended to do, why’d you go to all that trouble and risk to steal it? Why, in fact, do you have it on now? I mean, if what you say is true, and you were as normal as you keep pretending to be then why not throw it in the trash—same as you did with the last one?
Because I can’t! I want to, more than anything, but—well, I can’t. I just can’t. Oh God, dear God help me. Help me to be normal and to be able to rid myself of this awful, cursed affliction that day and night haunts me, terrorizes me, drives me to do things that I don’t want to do…
CATHERINE
It was already drizzling when I drove over to pick up Dolly. Figures. The weather guy predicted “night and morning fog but mostly sunny afternoons at the beaches,” so, naturally, it rains. I mean, when are those dickheads ever right?
Not that I mind the rain—who in Southern California does? I just wish certain people would make up their dumb minds is all.
Dolly lives with her folks. Well, actually her mom and her stepfather. Her real dad’s dead. This guy, the man her mother’s married to now, is her mom’s fourth or fifth husband—or maybe her sixth. She gets divorced and remarried so often, truthfully I’ve lost count. Anyway, they live in one of those ginormous huge houses in the Malibu Hills overlooking the ocean. You know the ones I mean. You’re driving along the Coast Highway, listening to the radio and feeling absolutely super because of all the sunshine and the ocean and the smell of the salt air and everything, when pow! all of a sudden you glance up at the hills and there’s one of those dumb movie star mansions staring down at you, real superior and smug-like, and—well, right then and there, you might just as well pull a uey and head back home because your day’s all shot to hell and you want to throw up you’re so envious.
Oh, sure, I know all about this Biblical “envy not thy neighbor” business. Who doesn’t? But that still doesn’t stop me from wanting things, out-of-sight things, like a sailing boat or a Ferrari, a black Arabian stud, two or three Great Danes or even one of those smug-looking hilltop manses with their smug-looking view of the ocean that makes a person sick every time you see one.
Because if it did, well, then you can be sure of one thing—I’m dead! That’s right: d-e-a-d dead! Because that’s the way I am: always envious and always wanting things I know I’ll never have. It’s a thing with me. Don’t ask me why, it just is.
Just like what I’m doing now—getting off the subject. That’s another thing with me. I’m always changing subjects without meaning to. Don’t ask me why I do it ’cause I don’t know. I just do. I’m always doing it.
But back to whatsherface—Dolly. You’re dead right: her folks are loaded. And I don’t mean they’re just pretty wealthy. I mean, they’re super rich. Rich as millionaires even. Fact is they are millionaires. They’re stingy enough to be anyway. And phony? God, they’re so phony they’ve forgotten how phony they really are.
You know the kind I mean. God, you see their faces every week in some corny Sunday paper society column. Remember? They’re smiling at you over a mountain of phony icky slop that goes something like “Mr. and Mrs. Moron and their charming beautiful daughter, Aloha (who, on looks alone, could make a living haunting houses) snapped by ‘your reporter while enjoying some of their hostess’ simply fabulous homemade (by Beverly Hills Pastry) chocolate torte. This wonderful, festive occasion was a farewell party, given by Mr. and Mrs. Oola Boola for their young handsome son (who resembles a pile of fried warts), Adolphus, who departs tomorrow for Africa and the Upper Regions of the Lower Mbosi River to hunt (a sportsman’s word for slaughter) the world famous Greater Kudu. A simply grand time was had by all.”
Don’t you just hate that kind of icky stuff? Especially that “And a simply grand time was had by all” garbage! God, I loathe phony people. Or anything else that’s phony, for that matter. Don’t ask me why, I just do. So did Dad. Fact is Dad hated phonies worse than anyone. Even me, I think. Especially phonies who used words like “grand” and “divine” and “simply marvy.” They were his pet peeve. Those, and people who complain all the time. God, he really hated complainers. Don’t ask me why, he just did. Although, thinking back, I guess I do know why he hated them. It’s because he never complained himself. Not once. Not even when he found out he had leukemia. And that’s for true. He really didn’t.
Not that I can ever remember, anyway. And since he only died two years ago (one year, eleven months, and twenty-four days to be exact), I remember him pretty well.
You would’ve liked my Dad. He was really friendly and kind and super-understanding. And I think that’s the most important thing a father can be—understanding. And I don’t mean wishy-washy, or letting you have your own way all the time, or even agreeing with you just to shut you up. I mean, truly understanding. You know: seeing or at least listening to your side of things, no matter who’s right, and then making a decision, a fair decision, that at least lets you know where you stand. In other words, not feeding you the same old bullshit. You know? Like, cutting off a question they can’t answer by saying: “Because. Just because.” Which is what my aunt and uncle do all the time. It really gripes me.
But not my Dad. He never did that. He told you straight up how he felt. And as for making fair decisions—wow, Dad was the best ever. Don’t ask me why, he just was. And funny? God, he was the funniest person—older person—I’ve ever known. Could make you laugh all the time, if he wanted. And he always wanted to—even clear up to the time he died. And that’s not as easy as it sounds. Not when you’ve been a widower for a long time and you’re dying of some crappy disease that’s killing off everything in your body a million times faster than you can make them.
But don’t get me started talking about Dad. I do that and I’ll be running off at the mouth for a month of Sundays. And right now, I’ve got to concentrate on my driving, because what with this creepy rain and it being Saturday night and all, it makes driving a real bad scene. And what’s worse, I only need one more traffic ticket and I can kiss my driver’s license goodbye. “This is your last and final warning, Miss Simpson,” the Motor Vehicle Department wrote me. And you know what that means? I get one more lousy moving violation and I’ll be thrown to the buses.
Urgh! What a double-bad scene that’d be.
HARRY
I finally got hold of Noel. I had to call Tom Halpin to do it, though. Told Tom that something was wrong with Noel’s phone and would he go downstairs and remind the no-good limey about us going to the show tonight?
So what does Noel do? Calls me right back and says he isn’t going. And when I ask him why not, he gives me that lame old excuse about having a headache.
“Bullshit!” I tell him. “Don’t try and roll me with that headache crap. You agreed to go with me, and, buster, you’re going. Because if you don’t, I’ll send these three old whores I know up to your pad and by the time they get through with you, bub, you’ll have a goddamn sight more than a fucking headache to worry about. That’s for sure!”
So he finally agrees. Says he’ll be ready in a half-hour or so—which is fine by me. Because, as luck would have it, Dusty already has a date tonight and won’t break it, not even for me. And that, bub, really is some kind of record!
CATHERINE
Reaching the crest of the hill, I followed the road as it ran curving through the dark wet trees toward Dolly Slauson’s house. Ahead the rain slanted across my headlights in hard, white lines. I drove slowly, carefully, and on reaching the driveway pulled right in. Normally I don’t do this because my old Dodge has starter trouble, and after being driven for a while it has to be left running or it won’t kick over again. But it was pouring so hard I decided to risk it.
Parking in front of the house, I slid over and got out on the passenger side, like they do in the movies. Only that’s not why I did it. I did it because it was nearest the front door. But I still got soaked, which gives you some idea of how hard it was raining.
At the door I was about to ring the bell, when I changed my mind and instead banged real hard on the little brass knocker. Don’t ask me why, I just did. Come to think of it, though, it’s probably because I hate the sound of the chimes bing-bonging all through the house. They make me think of rich people’s houses and I want to barf. I mean, poor or just plain ordinary people don’t have chimes, they use doorbells or knockers. Truthfully, I also did it because Mrs. Slauson hates it when anyone uses the knocker. Says it shows no class—though what she really means is, because it reminds her of before she married Dolly’s father, when she was poor and lived with her folks in a little dump of a house down on Venice Boulevard. Of course, she’d probably deny all that if you ever asked her. Fact is I’ve even heard her come right out and lie and say she was born and raised back East, on this big farm somewhere in Connecticut. Which is okay, I guess, if you’re ashamed of your parents like she is.
So ashamed in fact, that after she left home she wouldn’t call or speak to her folks—not even if she happened to bump into them on the street.
But enough of Dolly’s mother! Get me started on her and I could tell you enough garbage to spoil your appetite for a week. Mine too, and I eat like it’s going out of style.
So, like I say, I banged on the door. No one answered so I kept on banging and suddenly, before I could let go of the dumb knocker, zappo! the door flies open and there’s Dolly, looking like she just raised the lid on Dracula’s coffin, saying all hushed and timid-like: “Cathy!—what’re you doing? You know Momma hates any one banging on the door like that!”
“Sorry,” I said. “Guess I forgot.”
“Well, don’t forget again,” she warned, “or Momma will stop you from coming over.”
I started to say that my luck wasn’t that good. But Dolly now stepped back, into the hall where the light was good, and I suddenly realized she wasn’t ready.
“Hey, aren’t you coming?”
She shook her head. It was then I noticed her eyes were all red and puffy from crying.
“What’s wrong, Dolly? Why can’t you go?”
She mumbled something about it raining too hard and then added: “But you can come in, if you like. Momma says it’s all right—just so long as we don’t make too much noise.”
“Well, good for Mrs. Mau-Mau,” I said sarcastically. “But why the big deal over a little California dew?”
Dolly shrank back as though I’d kicked her. Then she glanced over her shoulder to see if her mother was eavesdropping.
“Well?” I demanded as she turned back to me. “What’s the skinny?”
‘
She shrugged and gave me one of her patented, “Oh-you-know-how-momma-is-about-my-catching-cold” looks, said only: “Don’t you want to stay? I got a new Seattle Album and Momma says we can use the hi-fi as long as—”
“—we don’t make too much noise, right?” I finished for her.
Dolly said nothing. Her face got all tight and funny looking and she just stood there, hands fidgeting at her sides, staring numbly down at her feet.
I felt pretty lousy then. I mean it’s bad enough just having a mother like hers, without your only friend rubbing it in all the time.
So, all of a sudden I got big-hearted and agreed to stay—for which, believe me, I deserved some sort of medal. Because I dig listening to records and all, even in Dolly’s house where you can’t play anything louder than a whisper and Dolly keeps jabbering all the time. But it’s no substitute for a super groovy horror movie that you’ve been dying to see ever since you saw the coming attractions over a month ago.
But it made Dolly happy, and when your best friend lives in a house where they shoot you for laughing—well, good grief, you have to make sacrifices occasionally. Besides, I felt pretty ridiculous just standing there in that huge big hall with my raincoat making a lake out of the Slauson’s fancy white carpeting, so anything was an improvement.
So we went upstairs to Dolly’s bedroom and I hung my raincoat over the bathroom door where the dripping wouldn’t spot her pale pink carpet. Then I dried my hair on one of her towels and afterward, kicked off my white boots and sprawled out on her huge, king-size bed.
Let me tell you something: that girl’s bedroom is something else. I swear you could be a movie star or a princess and not feel cheated in it!
It’s all done in pink and red and off-white, and there’s this real pretty fuchsia satin bedspread that matches the drapes, and, opposite the bed, alongside this giant walk-in closet that’s so full of new clothes it makes you ill, there’s a real dreamy-looking vanity-table with a mirror and a special three-way neon light so you can see how you look indoors, outdoors, and at night.
And that’s not all. God, Dolly has remote-control color TV, a clock-radio that wakes you up with music, a console-record-player, and a whole bunch of other stuff besides, like an electric scalp-massager, a professional hair-drier, a special vibrator that tightens up your skin, and, well, just about everything any girl could want to make herself beautiful—which shows you how weird life is, because Dolly’s sort of fat and ugly and never uses any of this stuff.
But never mind that. Dolly’s bedroom is really super and usually just being there knocks me out. Don’t ask me why, it just does. Especially since Dolly isn’t the kind of rich kid who, accidently on purpose, drops price tags all the time or keeps saying how she wishes deep down she was poor, like you, and how simply marvy it must be to still appreciate life’s little ordinary pleasures, like, you know, eating burgers and fries, buying clothes at Penney’s or riding the school bus with all the other poor slobs who can’t afford their own car.
No, Dolly doesn’t mention any of that kind of garbage at all. Fact is she’s always trying to give me money to buy clothes and stuff. Naturally, I don’t take it—or not very often. And even if I do, I always pay her back. Or try to anyway.
But I’m getting off the subject again. What I was telling you about was how usually just being in her room surrounded by all that luxury and stuff really knocks me out. But tonight, for some reason, it only depressed me—something that Dolly noticed right away.
“What is it, Cat?”
I hate it when people call me Cat. But I let Dolly do it because it makes her feel special… more like she’s my best friend.
“Nothing,” I said, shrugging.
“It’s missing the movie, isn’t it?”
“Maybe. I don’t know.”
She nodded, as if she’d just discovered some big dark family secret, and put her pink chubby arm around my shoulders. “I’m terribly sorry, Cat,” she said, like I’d just lost my baby. “I know how much you wanted to go.”
“Forget it,” I said, trying not to show how much I hated having her arm about me. “It’s not your fault, it’s dear old Mau-Mau’s. Besides, I did want to see the movie, I admit, but that’s not what’s making me depressed.”
“It isn’t?”
“Uh-uh.”
“What, then?”
I shrugged again, not sure myself. Then knowing that she’d never accept that for a reason and would drive me buggy all night trying to find out what it really was I glanced around trying to find something I could blame my mood on.
“Please, Cat. Can’t you even tell me—your very best friend?”
I started to say no. Then I noticed my raincoat. It was still making puddles on the bathroom floor and pointed at it. “It’s that.”
“Your raincoat?”
I nodded.
“But—why should that make you feel depressed?”
“Because,” I said, groping for an excuse, “it’s—uh—the last birthday present Dad gave me before he died.”
“Oh-h, I see.”
But she didn’t. She didn’t see at all. How could she, having never been close to her real dad or any of the stepfathers who followed? And after a little, she said: “You really think that that’s what’s making you depressed?”
I shrugged. I know I keep shrugging but shrugging’s a thing with me. I do it all the time. Sometimes even when I don’t even mean to. Don’t ask me why, I just do is all.
“Well,” Dolly said, smiling fatly, “it’s a very pretty raincoat. It does super things for your figure and the white makes your hair look much lighter—almost platinum in fact.”
I tried to smile my thanks. I hate it when people—especially friends—try to butter you up with a bunch of dumb phony compliments, and I don’t do too well at hiding my feelings. Result was, I got all uptight and nervous and had to do something, real quick, before the silence between us got too long or awkward.
So, what I did was to get up and go to the window and look out at the rain and the night and, far below, the waves rolling up on the beach.
It was a super view. Too super to he seen through some dumb window. And without thinking or remembering where I was, I flung open the window and took a deep breath. At once the night air cooled my lungs and flooded my senses with a mixture of wonderful smells. I smelled the ocean, the jasmine blooming beneath the window, wet leaves of nearby trees and, best of all, a hillside of rain-soaked grass. At the same time a wind off the ocean blew rain in my face, wetting, cooling, and refreshing it after the stale and confined warmth of Dolly’s heated bedroom. It felt so marvelous, I closed my eyes and stood there for a moment, wishing as I did that I could be outside right now, walking in the night.
