Eight: Dynamite from Nightmare-Land

MY heart went to my mouth. Who could it possibly be? And then I remembered. The VACANCY sign! I had pulled the switch when the lightning struck and I had forgotten to turn the damned thing off. What an idiot! The banging started up again. Well, I would just have to face it, apologize, and send the people on to Lake George. I went nervously across to the door, unlocked it, and held it on the chain.
There was no porch. The neon VACANCY sign made a red halo in the sheet of rain and glittered redly on the shiny black oilskins and hoods of the two men. Behind them was a black sedan. The leading man said politely, "Miss Michel?"
"Yes, that's me. But I'm afraid the VACANCY sign's on by mistake. The motel's closed down."
"Sure, sure. We're from Mr. Sanguinetti. From his insurance company. Come to make a quick inventory before things get taken away tomorrow. Can we come in out of the rain, miss? Show you our credentials inside. Sure is a terrible night."
I looked doubtfully from one to the other, but I could see little of the faces under the oilskin hoods. It sounded all right, but I didn't like it. I said nervously, "But the Phanceys, the managers, they didn't say anything about you coming."
"Well, they should of, miss. I'll havta report that back to Mr. Sanguinetti." He turned to the man behind him. "That right, Mr. Jones?"
The other man stifled a giggle. Why did he giggle? "Sure, that's right, Mr. Thomson." He giggled again.
"Okay then, miss. Can we come inside, please? It sure is wetter'n hell out here."
"Well, I don't know. I was told not to let anyone in. But as it's from Mr. Sanguinetti..." I nervously undid the chain and opened the door.
They pushed in, shouldering roughly past me, and stood side by side, looking the big room over. The man who had been addressed as "Mr. Thomson" sniffed. Black eyes looked at me out of a cold gray face. "You smoke?"
"Yes, a little. Why?"
"Reckoned you could have company." He took the door handle from me, slammed the door, locked it, and put up the chain. The two men stripped off their dripping oilskins and threw them messily down on the floor and, now that I could see them both, I felt in extreme danger.
"Mr. Thomson," obviously the leader, was tall and thin, almost skeletal, and his skin had this gray, drowned look as if he always lived indoors. The black eyes were slow-moving, incurious, and the lips thin and purplish like an unstitched wound. When he spoke there was a glint of gray silvery metal from his front teeth, and I supposed they had been cheaply capped with steel, as I had heard was done in Russia and Japan. The ears lay very flat and close to the bony, rather box-shaped head and the stiff grayish-black hair was cut so close to the skull that the skin showed whitely through it. He was wearing a black, sharp-looking single-breasted coat with shoulders padded square, stovepipe trousers so narrow that the bones of his knees bulged through the material, and a gray shirt buttoned up to the throat with no tie. His shoes were pointed in the Italian style and of gray suede. They and the clothes looked new. He was a frightening lizard of a man, and my skin crawled with fear of him.
Where this man was deadly the other was merely unpleasant-a short, moon-faced youth with wet, very pale blue eyes and fat wet lips. His skin was very white and he had that hideous disease of no hair-no eyebrows and no eyelashes, and none on a head that was as polished as a billiard ball. I would have felt sorry for him if I hadn't been so frightened, particularly as he seemed to have a bad cold and began blowing his nose as soon as he got his oilskins off. Under them he wore a black leather windcheater, grubby trousers, and those Mexican saddle-leather boots with straps that they wear in Texas. He looked a young monster, the sort that pulls wings off flies, and I desperately wished that I had dressed in clothes that didn't make me seem so terribly naked.
Sure enough, he now finished blowing his nose and seemed to take me in for the first time. He looked me over grinning delightedly. Then he walked all round me and came back and gave a long, low whistle. "Say, Horror." He winked at the other man. "This is some bimbo! Git an eyeful of those knockers! And a rear-end to match! Geez, what a dish!"
"Not now, Sluggsy. Later. Git goin' and look those cabins over. Meantime, the lady's goin' to fix us some chow. How you want your eggs?"
The man called Sluggsy grinned at me. "Scramble em', baby. And nice and wet. Like mother makes. Otherwise poppa spank. Right across that sweet little biscuit of yours. Oh boy, oh boy!" He did some little dancing, boxing steps toward me, and I backed away to the door. I pretended to be even more frightened than I was, and when he got within range I slapped him as hard as I could across the face and, before he could recover from his surprise, I had darted sideways behind a table and picked up one of the little metal chairs and held it with the feet pointing at him.
The thin man gave a short, barking laugh. "Ixnay, Sluggsy. I said later. Leave the stupid slot be. There's all night for that. Git goin' like I said."
The eyes in the pale moon-face were now red with excitement. The man rubbed his cheek. The wet lips parted in a slow smile. "You know what, baby? You just earned yourself one whale of a night. An' it's goin' to be long and slow an' again and again. Get me?"
I looked at them both from behind the raised chair. Inside I was whimpering. These men were dynamite from Nightmare-Land. Somehow I kept my voice steady. "Who are you? What's this all about? Let's see those credentials. The next car that comes by, I'll break a window and get help. I'm from Canada. You do anything to me and you'll be in bad trouble tomorrow."
Sluggsy laughed. "Tomorrow's tomorrow. What you got to worry about's tonight, baby." He turned to the thin man. "Mebbe you better wise her up, Horror. Then mebbe we'll get some cooperation."
Horror looked across at me. His expression was cold, uninterested. "Ya shouldn't of hit Sluggsy, lady. The boy's tough. He don't like the dames not to go for him. Thinks it may be on account of his kisser. Been like that since he done a spell in solitary at San Q. Nervous sickness. What's that the docs call it, Sluggsy?"
Sluggsy looked proud. He brought the Latin words out carefully. "Alopecia totalis. That means no hair, see? Not a one." He gestured at his body. "Not here, or here, or here. What d'ya know about that, eh, bimbo?"
Horror continued. "So Sluggsy gets mad easy. Thinks he ain't had a fair deal from society. You had that puss of his, mebbe you'd be the same. So he's what we call in Troy an enforcer. Guys hire him to make other guys do what they want, if you get me. He's on Mr. Sanguinetti's roll, and Mr. Sanguinetti thought he and I better come along and keep an eye on this joint till the truckers come. Mr. Sanguinetti didn't care for a young lady like you bein' all alone here at night. So he sent us along for company. Ain't that so, Sluggsy?"
"That's the spiel. Sure is." He giggled. "Just to keep you company, bimbo. Keep the wolves away. With them statistics of yours, there must be times when you need protection real bad. Right?"
I lowered the chair onto the table top. "Well, what are your names? What about these credentials?"
There was a single tin of Maxwell House coffee on the shelf above the bar counter, all by itself. Sluggsy suddenly swiveled, and his right hand-I hadn't even seen him draw a gun-shot flame. There was the crash of gunfire. The tin jumped sideways and then fell. In midair Sluggsy hit it again and there was a brown explosion of coffee. Then a deafening silence in which the last empty shell tinkled away on the floor. Sluggsy turned back to me. His hands were empty. The gun had gone. His eyes were dreamy with pleasure at his marksmanship. He said softly, "How's them for credentials, baby?"
The small cloud of blue smoke had reached me, and I smelled the cordite. My legs were trembling. I said, scornfully I hope, "That's a lot of wasted coffee. Now, what about your names?"
The thin man said, "The lady's right. You didn't ought to of spilled that java, Sluggsy. But ya see, lady, that's why they call him Sluggsy, on account he's smart with the hardware. Sluggsy Morant. Me, I'm Sol Horowitz. They call me 'Horror.' Can't say why. Kin you, Sluggsy?"
Sluggsy giggled. "Mebbe one time you gave some guy a scare, Horror. Mebbe a whole bunch of guys. Leastwise that's what they tell me."
Horror made no comment. He said quietly, "Okay. Let's go! Sluggsy, see to the cabins like I said. Lady, you make us some chow. Keep ya nose clean and cooperate and ya won't get hurt. Okay?"
Sluggsy looked me over greedily. He said, "Not much, that is. Eh, bimbo?" and walked over to the key rack behind the desk and took down all the keys and let himself out through the back entrance. I put down the chair and, as coolly as I knew how, but painfully aware of my toreador pants, walked across the room and went behind the counter.
The man called Horror sauntered slowly over to the cafeteria table farthest from me. He pulled a chair away from the table, twisted it in his hand, and pushed it between his legs. He sat down and leaned his folded arms along the back and rested his chin on them and watched me with unwavering, indifferent eyes. He said softly, so softly that I could only just hear him, "I'll take mine scrambled too, lady. Plenty crisp bacon. Buttered toast Howsabout coffee?"
"I'll see what's left." I got down on my hands and knees behind the bar. The tin had four holes right through it. There was about an inch of coffee left and a whole lot scattered over the floor. I put the tin aside and scraped what I could from the floor onto a plate, not caring how much dust went with it. The unspoiled remains of the tin I would keep for myself.
I spent about five minutes down there, taking my time, desperately trying to think, to plan. These men were gangsters. They worked "for this Mr. Sanguinetti. That seemed certain because they had got my name from him or from the Phanceys. The rest of their story was lies. They had been sent up here, through the storm, for a purpose. What was it? They knew 1 was a Canadian, a foreigner, and that I could easily go to the police the next day and get them into trouble. The man called Sluggsy had been in San Quentin. And the other? Of course! That was why he looked gray and sort of dead! He had probably just come out of prison too. He smelled of it, somehow. So I could get them into real trouble, tell the police that I was a journalist, that I was going to write up what happened to girls alone in the States. But would I be believed? That VACANCY sign! I was alone in the place, yet I had left it on. Wasn't that because I wanted company? Why had I dressed up like that, to kill, if I expected to be alone? 1 dodged away from that line of thought. But, to get back. What did these two men want here? They had an ordinary car. If they had wanted to clean the place out, they would have brought a truck. Perhaps they really had been sent up to guard the place, and they just treated me as they did because that was the way gangsters behaved. But how much worse were they going to get? What was going to happen to me tonight?
I got to my feet and began to busy myself with the cooking. Better give them what they wanted. There must be no excuse for them to set on me.
Jed's apron was rolled up and thrown into a corner. I picked it up and put it round my waist. A weapon? There was an ice-pick in the cutlery drawer and a long, very sharp carving knife. I took the pick and stuck it, handle first, down the front of my pants under the apron. The knife I hid under a dishcloth beside the sink. I left the cutlery drawer open and lined up beside it a row of glasses and cups for throwing. Childish? It was all I had.
Every now and then I glanced across the room. Always the thin man's eyes were on me, old in crime and its counter-moves, knowing what was in my mind, what defenses I was preparing. I sensed this, but I went on with my little preparations, thinking, as I Lad at the English school, When they hurt me, and I know they're meaning to hurt me, I must somehow hurt them back. When they get me, rape me, kill me, they mustn't find it easy.
Rape? Kill? What did I think was really going to happen to me? I didn't know. 1 only knew that I was in desperate trouble. The men's faces said so-the indifferent face and the greedy face. They both had it in for me. Why? I didn't know. But I was absolutely certain of it.
I had broken eight eggs into a bowl and had whipped them gently with a fork. The huge chunk of butter had melted in the saucepan. Beside it, in the frying pan, the bacon was beginning to sizzle. I poured the eggs into the saucepan and began to stir. While my hands concentrated, my mind was busy on ways to escape. Everything depended on whether the man called Sluggsy, when he came back from his inspection, remembered to lock the back door. If he didn't, I could make a dash for it. There would be no question of using the Vespa. I hadn't run it for a week. Priming the carburetor, and the three kicks that might be necessary to start it from cold, would be too long. I would have to leave my belongings, all my precious money, and just go like a hare to right or left, get round the end of the cabins and in among the trees. I reflected that of course I wouldn't run to the right. The lake behind the cabins would narrow my escape route. I would run to the left. There, there was nothing but miles of trees. I would be soaked to the skin within a few yards of the door, and freezing cold for the rest of the night. My feet, in their stupid little sandals, would be cut to ribbons. I might easily get lost into the bargain. But those were problems I would have to cope with. The main thing was to get away from these men. Nothing else mattered.
The eggs were ready and I heaped them out, still very soft, onto a flat dish and added the bacon round the sides. I put the pile of toast from the Toastmaster on another plate, together with a slab of butter still in its paper, and put the whole lot on a tray. I was glad to see that plenty of dust rose to the top when I poured boiling water over the coffee, and I hoped it would choke them. Then I carried the tray out from behind the bar and, feeling more respectable in my apron, took it over to where the thin man was sitting.
As I put it down, I heard the back door open and then slam shut. There had been no click of a lock. I looked quickly round. Sluggsy's hands were empty. My heart began to beat wildly. Sluggsy came over to the table. I was taking things off the tray. He looked the meal over and came swiftly behind me and seized me round the waist, nuzzling his ghastly face into my neck. "Just like mother made 'em, baby. Howsabout you and me shacking up together? If you can- like you can cook, you're the gal of my dreams. What say, bimbo? Is it a deal?"
I had my hand on the coffee pot, and he was just going to get the boiling contents slung over my shoulder. Horror saw my intention. He said sharply, "Leave her be, Sluggsy. I said later." The words came out like a whiplash, and at once Sluggsy let me go. The thin man said, "Ya nearly got ya eyeballs fried. Ya want to watch this dame. Quit foolin' around and sit down. We're on a job."
Sluggsy's face showed bravado, but also obedience. "Have a heart, pal! I want a piece of this baby. But now!" But he pulled out a chair and sat down, and I moved quickly away.
The big radio and TV was on a pedestal near the back door. It had been playing softly all this time, although I had been quite unconscious of it. I went to the machine and fiddled with the dials, putting the volume up. The two men were talking to each other quietly and there was the clatter of cutlery. Now or never! I measured my distance to the door handle and dived to the left.