Davey Taylor didn’t like the shine of the street lamp that cut through the darkness and played against the filmy curtains in his bedroom. The lamp created shadows that danced on the wall, menacing his toy chest and his favorite stuffed animals on the shelf above. Each night Davey would move his ragged, beloved Panda Bear from the shelf and place it where the shadows couldn’t touch it.
Right now the lights in his room were all lit and the shadows were held at bay. If Davey moved back the curtain, he could even see his own reflection in the glass. But later, after Mom turned off the lights, those dark invaders would enter his room. His mother said he was too old for a night-light.
Straightening his room before he went to bed, as he had been taught, Davey pursed his mouth as he studied his dog calendar.
“Today is Sunday; yesterday was Saturday,” he told the dog sitting quietly near his feet. “I’m supposed to change my pajamas on Saturdays, Tuesdays, and Fridays.” His brow knit into worried lines. “I can’t remember if I changed them last night or not, Duffy.”
The Yorkshire terrier squirmed, as if uncertain of the tone of Davey’s voice.
“See, I make an X on the days I change my PJs. There’s no X for yesterday.” Davey looked down at his dog, who tipped her head to one side. Shaking his head over his forgetfulness, he walked over to his chair and flopped down.
“Changing my pajamas,” he said, with seven-and-a-half-year-old authority, “is one of those ‘almost’ things. You know, Duff, like I can almost reach the top cupboards. I can almost tell the time. I can almost walk to school by myself. Everything is ‘almost.’ I can’t wait to grow up so I can be most.”
The tan-and-black dog woofed in agreement.
Davey swiveled his bright blue eyes to the clothes tree. There were no colorful pajamas on the peg. A cherry-red windbreaker and a yellow slicker with matching hood were the only garments hanging there. Davey ran his stubby, little-boy fingers through his thick, flaxen hair, a sign that he was relieved. His breath exploded in a loud whoosh. He must have changed his PJs the night before after all, and put them under his pillow, otherwise they’d be hanging from the peg. As if sensing her master’s relief, Duffy yipped happily.
“See these, Duff? They’re my first pair of Reeboks!” Davey said proudly. “And I almost got them dirty today. I’m wearing them tomorrow with my new red jacket when we leave with Aunt Lorrie to go camping. Mom says you can’t go camping with dirty shoes, Duff.”
Duffy rolled over on the meadow of green carpet, taking Davey’s excitement as a sign that it was time to play. Instead, Davey leaned over to pull up his pants leg. Duffy watched as first one strap and then another was loosened. She growled deep in her throat when the brace fell against the side of the desk. Crawling on her belly, she stretched herself to her entire two feet in length to show her disapproval.
Davey stood erect. He could walk without the brace; he just wasn’t supposed to be ram . . . rambunctious. He liked that word even though he wasn’t exactly certain what it meant.
Finding the PJs under his pillow, he stripped down and pulled the top over his head, then completed the job with the long-legged bottoms. Jumping onto the bed, he settled himself down with his new book, Elliott the Lovesick Swan. The long hand on his 101 Dalmatians watch told him it was almost time for his parents to come in and say good night. The new watch, a gift from Aunt Lorrie, was special. The only time he took it off was when he had a shower.
“Oh, man, I forgot to brush my teeth!” With only a few minutes until bedtime, he didn’t want to waste them brushing his teeth. Davey threw back the covers and marched to the bathroom. He turned on the water, put his toothbrush under the flow and wet it. His eyes danced merrily as he purposely splashed a little water onto the marble vanity top. A giggle erupted as he gave the toothpaste tube a quick squeeze in the middle, then set it down. He scurried back to bed where Duffy watched him with droopy eyes.
“I made it look like I brushed my teeth, Duff, but I really didn’t.”
Picking up his picture book, he flipped through the pages. He wasn’t interested in Elliott tonight. If only he could talk to his friend Digger on the CB radio. But “if only” was like “almost.”
“Time for lights out, buddy,” his father said, opening Davey’s door all the way.
Davey looked up to see his mom and dad standing in the doorway. “I know, Dad. See, the big hand is almost on the six. Do I call it six eight or eight six?”
There was a trace of annoyance in Sara Taylor’s voice when she answered for her husband. “No, Davey. You call it eight thirty or half past eight. The little hand tells you the hour and the big hand tells you the minutes.” She refused to call the hands on his Dalmatian watch “paws,” as her sister Lorrie had suggested. The boy would learn to tell time properly. “We went over all this on Saturday afternoon. I can see where we’ll have to practice extensively when you get back from your camping trip.”
Davey was undaunted by her displeasure. “I don’t think I can fall asleep tonight. I can’t wait for tomorrow. Gee, this is almost better than Christmas,” he said, his voice bubbling with excitement. Almost. It was going to be better than Christmas, he just knew it.
Andrew Taylor walked over to the bed and grinned as he bent to kiss his son good night. “I think you’re absolutely right. Do you have all your gear ready?”
Davey nodded. “I’ve had it ready for a whole week. Are you going to miss me, Dad?”
“Of course we’re going to miss you,” Sara replied instead. “By the time you get back from your trip, we’ll be back from ours. We’ll all be together again in just a few days. Did you brush your teeth, Davey?”
Davey squirmed. “Go see the toothbrush,” he answered, avoiding the lie. He looked at his parents, noticing how close they were to each other. They were always like that, he thought. And Mom always knew what Dad was thinking or was going to say. He had heard the phrase “matched pair” and that was how he thought of his parents. A pair. Like a pair of socks or shoes. They matched. Wanting to be part of a pair, Davey drew Duffy close.
Wordlessly, Sara Taylor pushed the terrier off the bed. “I think I will check that toothbrush,” she said, then leaned over to kiss him good night. “Did you find your PJs under the pillow?”
“Yep. See?” He lifted the pillow for her inspection.
“Davey, we do not say ‘yep.’ It’s a slang term and I don’t want you to use it.”
Her voice was firm and Davey made a note to try and remember. Mom’s voice was always firm. He liked Dad’s voice better because there was usually a smile in it. But he liked Aunt Lorrie’s voice best of all because there was usually a secret waiting to be told. Hers was a tickly, fun kind of voice. You couldn’t fool Aunt Lorrie. She would have known about the toothbrush right away.
Davey felt guilty for liking Aunt Lorrie’s voice more than his mom’s. Impulsively, he reached out, hugging her around the neck. The stretching pulled back his pajama sleeves from his arms.
Sara Taylor’s cinnamon-brown eyes fell on the needle marks dotting her son’s arms. But her movements, when she extricated herself, were icily controlled. There was no hugging pressure on her part, no smile in her eyes, when she firmly pushed him back onto his nest of pillows. “Good night, Davey. Sleep well.”
“G’night, Mom. G’night, Dad,” the boy said quietly. He felt funny inside, as if he’d done something wrong. He lay very still until the door closed behind them.
Seconds later, he scooted to the bottom of the bed. Duffy lay stretched out on a small carpet bearing her name.
“C’mon, Duff. You can get up here now.” The little dog was on the bed in one leap, her tail wagging furiously. “I’ve got that funny feeling again, Duff. As if we did something wrong.”
Chubby hands cupped the terrier’s face in a firm grip. Bright blue eyes stared unblinkingly into Duffy’s melting brown ones. “We didn’t do anything wrong today, did we?” Duffy wriggled, trying to get free to snuggle in the warmth of the blankets.
Davey stared into the dim corners of the room, trying not to look at the light that filtered through his curtains. Why did his stomach feel so funny after Mom and Dad said good night? All those times in the hospital, his stomach had felt bad, too. The tubes going into his veins, his sore puffy knees making him want to cry. But he hadn’t cried. Instead he’d gripped the pillows and clenched his teeth so hard he’d been afraid they’d crack into pieces. “Don’t cry, Davey. Only babies cry,” his mother had cautioned. “You must be brave and not do anything to upset your father.” He had felt sick whenever Mom said that to him, her eyes willing him not to cry.
He remembered the day the tall doctor told him he was going to get a different kind of treatment—a blood transfusion through the jugular vein. Davey had steeled himself not to cry in front of his dad. Instead, he’d grinned and waved to his dad as they wheeled him to the special room for blood transfusions.
Pills and shots, shots and pills for days afterward, and Davey had taken it all, like the brave little man his mother had told him he must be for his father’s sake. He’d been carefully instructed from infancy that Daddy’s wants and needs came first. Even when the pain in his joints was so bad he couldn’t walk, still he hadn’t cried. Davey’s eyes had searched his father’s each time he visited. There was always acceptance in his father’s eyes, an acceptance that was totally ignorant of the price Davey was paying just so that his dad could laugh and smile when he came to visit.
Davey had hoped his mom would be proud of him, but if she was she hadn’t said so. He didn’t understand. He’d done as he’d been told. He’d been brave. Behaved like a grown-up. With a child’s sure instinct, he’d recognized that he was a trial to his parents, less than perfect, a disappointment.
Once when his aunt had visited him, she’d commented on the shadows under his eyes and asked if he was in pain. He’d been hesitant to say yes, but Aunt Lorrie had persisted until he admitted it.
“Why didn’t you say something to your mom when she was in here?”
“I . . . I wanted to but—”
Before Davey could finish his answer, his mother and father had entered the room and stopped him from continuing. That night, after visiting hours, Lorrie came back. Wordlessly, she lowered the bars of the youth bed and sat on the edge. There, in the dark, she took him in her arms and held him.
“It’s okay to feel tired and sore, Davey,” she told him, her voice as soft and sweet as the darkness. “It’s all right. You can cry if you want to. No one will hear. I know it hurts,” she crooned, reaching out to share the weight of his misery, acknowledging Davey’s pain, accepting it.
Silently Davey clung to her, taking from her the courage to continue with his charade and face the ordeal. At last he slept, his body weak with exhaustion. But he hadn’t cried. Not then, nor the last time either. But knowing that it would be okay to cry lightened his burden.
Now the worst was behind him; he was home, and there were just the daily shots of antigen. He had done what his mother wanted; he had been brave. He hadn’t cried. He hadn’t upset his dad.
Now, sitting with Duffy in the darkness of his room, trying to avoid the light coming through the curtains, Davey felt that tightness in his middle, again the alarm that said he’d done something wrong. That his mother didn’t approve.
In a flash he was off the bed and across the room, dodging the light. He created a windmill of motion as he pulled his toys from the toy chest and sent them sailing across the bedroom. “See, Duff. Here it is,” he whispered triumphantly, grabbing onto his stuffed giraffe.
Back on the bed, with Duffy crouched between his legs, Davey held the stuffed giraffe up for inspection. “You see, Duff, how shiny Jethroe’s eyes are?” The giraffe’s bright, shoe-button eyes stared back at him. “Look, Duff,” the little boy commanded, “Jethroe’s eyes never change, no matter how I move him. I don’t like this giraffe!” he cried suddenly, and his lower lip trembled as he stared at the toy. “You know why I don’t like that old thing, Duff? I’ll tell you. It’s . . . it’s ’cause I feel like Jethroe sometimes. All wobbly and tired. Aunt Lorrie says it’s okay to feel that way sometimes. But Mom doesn’t.” Seven-and-a-half-year-old wisdom rose to the fore. “If I cry and act like Jethroe, Dad will get upset. Mom doesn’t want to see Dad upset.”
Duffy snuggled deeper into the covers. “Aunt Lorrie knows I hurt sometimes. She knows I feel like Jethroe. She says it’s okay to feel like that because those trips to the hospital for blood tests take all the . . . energy out of me. Energy, Duff. Like what’s in the batteries that make my RC car go. The blood tests take all my energy.”
Davey pitched the giraffe across the room. The backward motion of his hand nearly toppled the picture of his parents that rested on his nightstand. “Whew, that was close,” he sighed as he grappled with the slippery frame. Even in the near darkness it seemed he could see the photograph of his smiling parents. Holding the frame carefully by the edges, he turned the picture to the light that came through the curtains. His gaze intent, he brought the faces closer, then held them at arm’s length again. Gingerly, he replaced the picture on the nightstand.
His whisper was fierce, almost savage, as he pulled up the covers. “I like Aunt Lorrie best! Mom and Dad really only like each other.”
A soft whine and much wiggling and the little dog was safely tucked against the pillow next to Davey. “You know, Duff, when I get all my energy back, I’m going to . . .”
He was asleep before he could complete his thought.
In the corridor leading to their bedroom, Sara linked her arm through her husband’s and squeezed. “I want to talk to you about something, Andrew.”
Andrew smiled around the pipe clenched in his teeth. “I’m all yours, as soon as the door closes.” He turned and leered suggestively at his wife.
Sara laughed, tossing her blond head. “That, too.”
“Why don’t we go down into the den and have a nightcap? It’s early and we’re all packed and ready to go.”
“Mr. Sanders is downstairs. I hardly think an FBI agent, even one as nice as Stuart Sanders, is conducive to a relaxed drink and lovemaking. Why don’t you,” she said, dropping her voice to a whisper, “turn on the gas log, shower, and wait for me? I’ll go down and lock up and bring our wine up here. We haven’t made love in front of the fire for ages. It’s time,” she purred.
Sara always had a better idea, or so it seemed to Andrew, as he returned her grin. “Hurry,” was all he could say. God, how he loved and desired her. He would never cease to be amazed that she returned his feelings. A man could search his life through for the right woman and never find her, but he’d found Sara and she was perfect. She fulfilled his every need. There seemed no amount of energy and caring that Sara would not put forth for his happiness. She had even interrupted her career as an English literature professor to bear him a son. At the time, she had been thirty-nine years old. He knew it had been no small concession on her part to make their union even more perfect.
Desire, hot and potent, coursed through him as he turned the key to light the fire. Sara would return in exactly the amount of time it would take him to shower, dry off and put on the bathrobe she’d bought him for his birthday.
Sara descended the long, circular staircase. Halfway down she called softly, “It’s all right, Mr. Sanders. I’m just coming down to lock up and get a drink for my husband and myself.”
Stuart Sanders waited at the bottom of the steps. His appraising, businesslike gaze took in the woman’s cool blond beauty and her regal bearing. He could appreciate her neutral tone of voice. He wasn’t a servant, or even a family friend; he was an acquaintance and Mrs. Taylor addressed him as such. It was acceptable.
“I’ll stay with you, Mrs. Taylor, until you go back upstairs.”
Sara recognized the order behind the words. “Of course, Mr. Sanders.”
Stuart followed her from one end of the house to the other as she checked the locks and turned off the lights. Even though he had locked up himself, she’d explained that the nightly ritual helped her to sleep better. He waited in the doorway of the den while she retrieved a couple of glasses and a bottle of wine from the built-in bar fridge. They weren’t just glasses, he told himself, they were antique wine goblets and the wine was one of those fifty-dollar-a-bottle varieties.
He felt no envy as he surveyed the expensively appointed room. The whole house reflected Sara Taylor’s conservative style and exacting taste. It was totally unlike his own place, where the furnishings—bought one at a time—never seemed to match. The clink of the crystal echoed through the room as Sara prepared to go back upstairs. There was nothing personal in Stuart’s gaze at her. She looked like a sophisticated movie actress in her ivory satin robe and slippers. Too thin for his tastes. He liked a little more flesh on his women. Besides that, he’d never cared much for blondes; Sara’s smooth delicate complexion lacked the vibrant flush he preferred.
Sara’s sister, on the other hand, Lorrie—now there was a woman. She was just the opposite of Sara in coloring and temperament. On top of that she was unattached. He’d liked her the moment he’d met her.
“Would you get the lights for me, Mr. Sanders?”
“Sure. Can I help you carry any of that?” Stuart offered.
“It’s quite all right, I can manage. I like doing things for my husband. It’s all part of being a good wife.” She smiled at him, her widening lips and soft tone belied by her expressionless eyes.
Stuart Sanders returned to his position in front of the television screen. He didn’t like Sara Taylor. She was cold. Icy. At first he’d thought she was only that way with him, but then he’d realized she acted like that with everybody, and worse with her sister.
Sibling rivalry, he thought. Maybe there was something in their past that had come between them. Whatever the reason, it was none of his business. His business was to protect the Taylors, not get involved in their lives.
Maybe after the trial, when he wasn’t on assignment, he could ask Lorrie out.
“You’re something, honey,” Andrew said, taking the wine bottle from her. “Right on schedule. I just this minute stepped from the shower.”
Sara laughed, a warm rich sound that sent tingles up Andrew’s spine. He loved to watch her when she laughed. The mirth began around her mouth and ended in her eyes, and he knew it was for him alone. Wanting to savor the moment, he poured the wine slowly while Sara settled herself against a mound of cushions in front of the fire. He handed her a glass and sat down beside her. “A toast. How about to—”
“Our happiness,” Sara said, extending her glass. Her eyes were glowing, full of desire as she met Andrew’s gaze.
It was Andrew who looked away first. “Tell me, what did you want to talk about?”
Sara placed her goblet on the raised hearth. “I’ve been thinking that Lorrie is spending too much time with Davey. What do you think?”
Andrew’s mind raced back in time. He frowned. “You may be right. We can’t allow her to intrude into our lives and Davey’s affections. I wish you’d mentioned it sooner, Sara. How long has this been troubling you?”
“A while. I wasn’t certain I should say anything. Not until I saw the way Davey looked at that ridiculous Dalmatian watch, and noticed the way he’s beginning to use slang words. Lorrie’s responsible for that, I think. After this camping trip, we should have a talk with her. And,” she held up a warning hand, “we have to be prepared for some hysterics.”
Sara brushed the hair back from Andrew’s forehead. Her touch was cool, confident and soothing. Beneath her fingers, his brow wrinkled in a frown at the thought of the inevitable confrontation with his sister-in-law. He knew that she loved Davey almost to a fault. That was the problem: Sara found fault with that love. How like Sara to put Davey’s welfare above her love for her sister—her only living relative. Andrew was glad Sara would deal with the unpleasantness herself. She would handle it just the way she handled every situation he found disturbing or distasteful. He trusted her judgment—she always did the right thing at the right time. Still, Andrew really liked Lorrie and he knew Davey loved her. An unsettling sensation grew in the pit of his stomach. “We must think of Davey first . . .” he began, half-developed contradictions forming in his mind. He had never been any good at personal relationships. He was really only comfortable with the undeniable truths of the laws of physics and higher calculus that he taught at Montclair College. And, of course, with Sara.
“Yes,” Sara smiled warmly, “Davey must come first.”
“The little guy is really excited about the camping trip. I think it will be a good experience for him. Since Lorrie is a doctor, we can leave for Florida without worrying about him. I meant to go up to his room this afternoon and set up his train tracks for him, but I got involved with something else and never got around to it. I’ll have some free time when all this trial business is over, I’ll be able to do it then.” Reaching for Sara’s hand, he asked, “Want to sit in with the grand old master of locomotives when he does his thing?”
“I’d love to,” Sara assured him, pleased that Andrew always included her in his plans. “I was thinking of taking some time off myself, a day or so at least, and taking Davey to the apple orchard. We could watch them bake pies and buy some to bring home. Davey does love apple pie.”
Andrew frowned. “I thought you were going to take him a couple of weeks ago. Didn’t you?”
Sara laughed ruefully. “Unfortunately, no. Something came up and I couldn’t make it.”
“Was he disappointed?”
“No, not that I could see.” Sara sipped at her drink, eyeing her husband over the rim of the glass.
“Okay. Next thing we have to talk about is our trip tomorrow. Nervous?”
“No,” she answered flatly.
“I wish we didn’t have to go through with this. I hate the whole thing. And I never liked the FBI’s decision to place Sanders and his partner in this house. You know, Sara, I’ve been thinking. You don’t really have to go with me. I’m the one who has to testify, and I don’t want you to be upset.”
“I’m going and that’s final. I wouldn’t dream of letting you go off without me. We belong together. That’s the way it’s always been. Where you go, I go. Final.”
Andrew ran his fingers through his thatch of dark hair salted with gray. Sara smiled, knowing the gesture signified relief. “I don’t like the fact that our names are being splashed all over the papers. And calling me a hostile witness . . .”
“Andrew, I don’t pay any attention to nonsense like that. The media is the media. Period. You know how they like to latch on to what they think is a story. Everything is going to work out, so I don’t want you losing any sleep over this. Promise me. After tomorrow, or the next day at most, this whole ordeal will be over.”
Andrew drank his wine. “I never thought they’d link me with this business, Sara. Not after we took the precaution of moving out of Miami and coming here to New Jersey.”
“I know all that, darling. I thought we’d escape this dreadful mess too, but it hasn’t worked out that way. Don’t blame yourself, Andrew.”
“Jason Forbes was a good student, Sara. Bright. Lots of potential. And now he’s dead. Maybe if I’d come between them there in the university library . . .”
“It wouldn’t have made any difference,” she assured him. “Kids make drug deals every day—in libraries, in classrooms, even in churches. You just happened to witness a buy. You couldn’t have known it would end up in murder.”
“But that doesn’t excuse the fact that I didn’t go to the police the minute I heard about the murder. Now, because I didn’t, and because Jason told his roommate that I’d witnessed his buy, it looks as though I was trying to cover up something.”
“Well, we both know you weren’t doing anything of the kind. Mr. Sanders says that the only reason you’re called a hostile witness is because you didn’t come forward voluntarily but had to be subpoenaed. Once you testify, the State will have its case wrapped up, and we can go back to our normal lives. And Mr. Sanders and his partner can go home and leave us alone.”
“I should have stepped forward voluntarily, Sara. I should have reported the threats I’d overheard as soon as the body was discovered.”
“Hush, darling, you’ll only upset yourself.” Sara cradled Andrew’s head against her soft bosom. “You were only trying to protect Davey and me, and we love you for it. Even the FBI recognizes that our lives are endangered, otherwise they wouldn’t have put us under twenty-four-hour guard. I love you, Andrew Taylor, with all my heart for all my life.”
Andrew’s pulses pounded as Sara’s face swam before his eyes. It never failed to happen when Sara prompted their lovemaking with those words. God, how he loved her. He knew his life would be meaningless without her. They shared their lives, careers, and interests; theirs was a coming-together, a blending, a loving. His hand slipped beneath the soft velour of her robe, touching her breast. Through the years he had learned the special phrases and words that heightened her response and brought her to life beneath his touch. He told her how he loved her, how they fitted one another like hand and glove. How perfect she made his life, how perfect she was, her beauty, her womanliness. How complete they were, one with the other, inseparable. And Sara responded, listening, prompting his words with touches, kisses, and murmurs.
Her eyes became liquid, her mouth ripe and open for him, accepting his kiss, his tongue. He loved her like this, soft and yielding. His pulses quickened, his senses sharpened as he waited, knowing she would slip out from under him and turn, leaning over him, assuming her usual dominant position.
Her thighs were lean and hard-muscled as they closed around his body, the heated, warm center of her pressed against his belly, rubbing, pleasuring. He submitted himself to her mastery without any inclination to assert a masculine role, trusting her implicitly, always trusting himself to her.
Wineglass in hand, Sara watched his reaction as she tipped the rim, allowing the sweet liquid to trickle down his chest, pooling on his belly. The chilled wine, her hot tongue. She felt his hands stroking and pressing her head, heard him groan with pleasure. “Your mouth, Sara, your beautiful mouth . . .”
Contact between their bodies was wet, slick, so warm. Artfully, she lowered herself onto him and felt him fill her body. She felt she was dissolving, melting. He seemed to become a part of herself. The muscles in her pelvis became rigid; she could feel her womb contract. It was as though she were birthing him.
At the moment of climax she brought her hard-tipped breast to his lips, encouraging him to suckle. And while she held his head, feeling the life spurt into her, she crooned, “Sara’s baby, Sara’s sweet, perfect baby.”
Blue light glaring from the television washed the faded colors of the sparsely furnished room. Hands gripping the arms of the chair, he sat with his booted feet planted solidly on the floor, his bulky torso leaning slightly forward, poised as though he were about to spring up. The images on the screen flickered. He stared at them, unblinking, but didn’t see any of the action, didn’t hear the blaring sound. Chill, wet patches on his back betrayed his anxiety. Perspiration broke out above his sullen mouth and on his scalp beneath his dark, military-short hair. Cudge Balog was waiting, listening for the dull thud of hooves deep inside his head. Cutting hooves which dug into his brain matter, tearing and gouging at it. It would start slowly, with only a hint of the weight and power to come.
He had been watching TV, his thoughts on Lenny Lombardi, who, Cudge knew, would soon be pounding on the door, demanding repayment of the borrowed fifty dollars. There was a crap game in the neighborhood tonight and Lenny would want to sit in well heeled. Little bastard. He didn’t need the fifty. Lombardi got more than he could spend from his drug-dealing racket. It was only pot, none of the big stuff, because he didn’t want trouble with the syndicate. Still, Lombardi made more in a week than Balog would see in a month of breaking his ass on construction jobs.
Cudge’s short, thick fingers dug into the threadbare fabric covering the chair. Pressure crowded the back of his brain, driving his squarish head into his neck as his powerful shoulders hunched to bear the weight. Soon, he knew, the hooves would pound through his skull—an unleashed power, irrevocable and ruthless. A dark, hulking shape would break loose from that area of his mind where he kept it penned, under control. Thinking about Lombardi had opened the gate.
As far back as Cudge could remember, the hoofed beast had lived inside his head. As a kid, he’d thought of it as a huge prehistoric monster with a long, arching neck and rows of jagged, fierce teeth. But then, at a summer camp for underprivileged city children, he’d seen a bull. He’d known then, he’d recognized the thick hulking body, the menacing drift of weight. Black, with dagger-sharp horns and fiery snorts of breath. He feared it but, in doing so, he feared a part of himself. When he was provoked and lost control of the gate, it was there—lurking, skulking, ready to burst forth from the recesses of his brain. A pounding, all-powerful force, hooves striking, horns slashing, searching for escape. Finding none, it would stampede wildly, smashing his reserve, pulverizing his restraint, compelling and dominating him until he became it.
Some said it was temper. Cudge knew better. It was the bull.
Brenda Kopec—or Elva St. John as she preferred to be called—sat on the lumpy daybed, her back against the wall. Her attention was riveted on the man in front of the television. She watched his profile with feral alertness, knowing he was a firecracker about to go off.
The instant Cudge had turned on the TV, she’d immediately lowered the volume of her small cassette player and jammed the earphones onto her head. Elva knew the words to Elvis Presley’s “Blue Suede Shoes” by heart, but she wanted to hear the song from beginning to end. As her foot tapped to the rhythm, the scowl on Balog’s face deepened. Elva knew he wasn’t really watching the TV. She’d known that from the minute he had turned it on. He was thinking about that little rat-faced Lenny Lombardi. Cudge was mad and getting madder by the minute.
As though feeling her eyes on him, Balog turned and glared at her. His square, snub-nosed face registered contempt. Veins swelled in his short, thick neck. With a speed that belied his bulk, he tore the earphones from her head; when she grappled for them, he struck her. Hard.
Elva brought up her arms defensively. “Why’d you do that?” she whined. If she cried, Cudge would hit her again.
“ ’Cause you’re breathin’. Shut that damn thing off and sit still. I’m trying to watch TV.”
“No, you’re not. Anyway, you’ve seen that one before. It’s the one where—” Instantly, she was sorry she’d opened her mouth. Cudge sent her another look which made her cower and slip off the end of the daybed.
He stood and loomed over her. “How many times you heard that dumb song, Brenda? Oh, ’scuse me,” he sneered at her, “you wanna be called Elva now. In honor of Elvis Presley. Well, he’s dead and you’re nothin’ but a dummy. Say it, Elva—you ain’t nothin’ but a dummy.”
Elva swallowed hard. The side of her head smarted from the blow. She knew better than to argue with Cudge. “So, okay, I’m a dummy.”
“You always get hit because you never know when to shut up.” His words were accusing, placing the blame for his actions on her. “Now, shut up, if you know what’s good for you. Already I missed the first part of the show.”
Righting herself, cautious to stay out of his reach, Elva put the cassette player in the paper shopping bag on the floor beside her, where she kept all her meager possessions. If Cudge decided they were moving on, he wouldn’t give her five minutes to get her gear together. Wishing she were invisible, she settled herself again on the worn daybed. She wanted to cry. She wanted to run. But she never would. Cudge scared her sometimes, but the outside world scared her more. At least Cudge took care of her. Sometimes he wasn’t so bad, she told herself. Once he’d bought her a purple scarf, and he often took her to the movies. Every Elvis cassette she owned had come from Cudge. So why did she take such pleasure in goading him the way she did? Even when he was raging at her, even when he hit her, there was a small part of her that took abject pleasure in it. Not that she was a pervert, or an S&M freak, or anything like that. No, it was more that she was little and helpless, so it felt good to be able to get a rise out of a hulk like Cudge. It gave her a kind of power, knowing she could set him off anytime she wanted. It made her stronger than him, in some strange way. But Cudge was right—she was a dummy. Someone smarter would know how to get a rise out of Cudge and aim it at somebody else. Whenever she set him off, she was bound to get the brunt of it.
Suddenly she felt contrite with tenderness for Cudge. He had his own problems to deal with. And he wasn’t so bad, not really. So what if this dumpy room wasn’t the Ritz? People like her and Cudge would never make the Ritz. They’d be lucky if they ever saw the inside of a Holiday Inn. She risked a quick, sidelong glance at Cudge to see if he really was watching TV. If he was, she could lean back and relax. She stared at the screen, fearful that any movement would alert Cudge that she was restless or scared. Her toothache was coming back and she wanted to massage her cheek but she was afraid to move.
“Someday I’m gonna get one of those portable satellite dishes so’s I can see some really sexy shows,” Cudge said during a commercial.
Elva shrugged.
“Why ain’t you sayin’ anything?” he demanded irritably.
“You told me to shut up, that’s why. I’m a dummy, remember?”
“That’s your trouble, you never know when to shut your mouth. Here,” he said, fishing in his pocket for money, “go get us a pizza, and I want the change. And listen—”
“I know, I know—I should tell that guy to put on extra cheese and not charge me for it.”
Cudge laughed. “You really think that old man has the hots for you, don’t you? Well, he don’t. And if he did, he knows better than to mess with you. Thirty minutes, Elva, and you better be back here handing me my first slice. Don’t lose the change!” He laughed again, his flat blue eyes narrowing.
Feeling like a trapped rat, Elva scuttled away. If she ran, she might make it there and back again in thirty minutes. Tony might be nice and give her somebody else’s pizza when she told him it was for Cudge. Tony would do that for her, maybe.
Her skinny body bent into the wind, she hurried along the deserted streets of Newark’s Ironbound section. The tap of her high heels echoed hollowly off the sleeping, brick-fronted tenements. She was wary, jumping at imagined shadows, at the prowlings of a conspiracy of cats lurking in an alley. Her worn navy parka was warm but it hung loosely on her slight frame. She pulled it higher, burrowing her chin into it against the late October cold.
Just ahead, less than a block away, she saw the dim red halo outlining the storefront of Tony’s Pizzeria. She broke into a run, eager to be near the warmth of Tony’s ovens and out of the menacing darkness. For an instant she panicked. Pushing her hand deep into the pocket of her parka, she searched for the ten-dollar bill Cudge had given her to pay for the pizza. Torn tissues and gum wrappers tumbled out, were caught in the wind and fell onto the sidewalk. Biting her lower lip, she prayed silently that the ten would magically appear. The last time Cudge had sent her out to buy something, she’d stupidly lost the money and had to go back to face his rage. She gave an audible sigh of relief when her skinny, twitching fingers found the bill. Holding tightly to the money, as though fearful some unseen force might pluck it away, she made a dash for the pizzeria.
The glass-paned door was steamed up, dripping moisture from the heat of the ovens meeting the cold outside. Throwing her weight against it, she entered into the light and warmth of the restaurant. The jukebox was playing a popular song and Tony, behind the counter, was singing along in his broken English.
“Hey, Elva! Whatcha doin’ out so late? Don’t y’know li’l girls should be in bed by now? I’m just closin’ up. Business, she’s bad tonight. Every Monday, it’s the same.” His white apron was stained with tomato sauce and the bright overhead lights accentuated the stubble on his jowly face.
“I ain’t so little,” she protested shyly. “I told you, I was eighteen last month.”
“Elva, you always gonna be a li’l girl. It make no difference how old you gonna get.” He smiled at her, showing a space between his front teeth.
Elva liked Tony. He was always friendly and he seemed to know instinctively how scared she was of everything and everyone. “Cudge wants a pizza.”
“So? He wants a pizza. I’m just closing up.” Tony saw the dread in her dark eyes. “Why you wait so long? It’s late. I’ve got a family waitin’ for me,” he complained, leaning over the counter. “Hey, how’s your eye? It’s not so nice what he does to you, that guy. Why you wanna stay with him?” His finger touched her cheek just below her left eye where, only last week, she had been black and blue from another of Cudge’s beatings. “Poor little thing,” Tony commiserated. “You oughta leave that son of a bitch.” He stared at her, pity in his eyes. “Sure, Elva, for you, anything. What kinda pizza you want?”
Cudge heard the door slam as Elva ran out. He really had to hand it to her—when she wanted she could really get that skinny ass of hers moving.
He wished he had a beer. The dull thudding in his head was getting louder; a beer might help. It was a piss-poor world when a man couldn’t have a beer. Elva always had her Kool-Aid in the fridge. His sullen mouth turned down. He was starting to hate Elva almost as much as he hated that sticky-sweet, artificial drink. It was getting to be time to rip the rug out from under old Elva. Time to move on and he liked to travel light.
Cudge let his eyes drift back to the blurry picture on the TV. It was an old rerun. Hutch was saying something to Starsky. Now that Starsky was a real man. Starsky, if you hoot with the owls all night, you won’t be able to soar with the eagles in the morning. Cudge rolled Hutch’s words around in his head then said them aloud. He liked the sound and the meaning. He repeated the sentence four times, till he was sure he’d remember it. It was just the kind of thing a guy would say to his best buddy.
A knock sounded and the door opened. “Cudge, you in here?”
Lenny! The thudding in his brain matched the beating of his pulses. He knew it! It’d been a sure bet that as soon as Lenny’d heard about the floating crap game, he’d come looking for that fifty. Some best buddy Lenny was. Lenny Lombardi would pick the gold from a dead man’s teeth; he didn’t deserve the words Cudge had just heard on the TV. He was a jerk. The whole world was full of jerks.
The muscles in Cudge’s neck went into a spasm. He feigned a smile, showing his teeth. “C’mon in, Len. Wanna drink? Elva’s got some Kool-Aid in the fridge.” He liked the stupid look on Lenny’s face.
“Nah. I didn’t come for Kool-Aid. I saw that Olive Oyl old lady of yours runnin’ down the street. What did you do? Threaten to beat her again?” Lenny loved to torment Cudge about his uncontrollable temper.
“What’s it to you?” Cudge drawled menacingly.
“Nothin’. I come for the bread you owe me. There’s a hot crap game and I want to sit in.” Lenny sauntered around the room, hands jammed into his pockets. “Cough it up, I’m in a hurry.”
Cudge’s fist tightened. The lone ten-dollar bill in his pants pocket seemed to be burning his leg. He didn’t need this cocky little dude with his pointed shoes giving him grief. “I ain’t got it.”
Lenny’s pinched face flattened. He worked his tongue between the space in his front teeth, making a hissing noise that set Cudge’s nerves on edge. “You told me that three weeks ago. Your time ran out, now pay up.”
Cudge laughed, an obscene sound. “I told you I ain’t got it. Gimme another week. Christ, Lenny, we been friends for a long time. You gonna blow it all for a lousy fifty bucks?” He watched Lenny keenly.
Lenny looked nervously over his shoulder before turning back to Cudge. It was a habit Cudge found irritating. Always looking away and then back again, diverting his attention, making him look over Lenny’s shoulder himself, making him half expect to see someone there.
“Looks like I’m gonna have to take it in trade, old buddy.”
Cudge’s mouth tightened. Both hands balled into fists. “Yeah? How?”
“By taking that camper sittin’ down at the curb, that’s how. And your truck goes with it. Give me the keys. When you come up with the bread, you get it all back. Simple.”
“You ain’t taking my rig so get that idea right out of your head. You want collateral, take Elva’s cassette player and tapes.”
“Hey, man, I don’t want your junk. Just give me the keys to your wheels. I gotta get going if I wanna sit in on the game.”
Cudge’s mind raced. The hooves pounded in his brain. Without his truck he’d be sunk, unable to get to the construction sites where he could pick up some money, even though he had to work his balls off just to keep body and soul together. He had to think of something. Think fast. Before the thundering hooves blotted out all reason. Lenny was a sneak, a real bastard, when it came to money. He had to get rid of him somehow.
“Don’t even think about pulling a fast one, Balog. I know you got money. You think I’m stupid or somethin’? Your old lady was going into Tony’s, probably for a pizza and some beer. If you can eat, you can pay your debts.”
Cudge got to his feet, Elva’s tape player in hand. He had no plan as he stared at Lenny Lombardi. He could almost hear the creak of the gate that kept his rage penned in the back of his head. His shoulders hunched from the weight pressing against the top of his spinal column. “I ain’t got it. If you can’t take my word for it, you ain’t my friend.”
“Friends don’t welch on loans,” Lenny told him. At the look in Balog’s eyes, he edged back.
Cudge laughed, an unpleasant sound. Lenny backed up another step, lurching into the kitchen table. His eyes seemed to measure the distance to the door. “Okay, okay. Forget the wheels. I’ll give you another week to come up with the scratch. Look, I gotta go now,” he bleated as he put the table between himself and Cudge.
Suddenly the beast was loose. It took off at a gallop, snorting fire. Pressure moved from the back of Cudge’s head to a point at the center of his skull. Instinct told him that if he frightened Lenny enough the fifty bucks would be called even, and he could forget about ever paying it back. He took a deliberate step in Lenny’s direction, hefting the cassette player in his beefy hand.
It was the sheer terror on Lenny’s face more than his words that provoked Balog. “You’re crazy, man! Crazy!”
Havoc broke loose in Cudge’s brain. He became the beast, sensing his prey, moving in for the kill. Blood surged into his face; his skull throbbed and pounded. Fiery breaths scorched his thoughts; dagger horns gouged and ripped.
Lenny stood speechless, his eyes round with fear. Urine pooled around his shoes. A sound erupted from his throat—a sick, choking sound. He made a run for the door but Balog was there ahead of him, blocking the way.
Cudge snorted; saliva glistened on his chin. Lenny froze. Only his eyes moved as the cassette player lifted and crashed down on top of his skull.
“Take my wheels, will you?” Cudge raged, slamming the cassette player again and again into Lenny’s head. “You ain’t my friend. Now get your ass out of here before I throw you down four flights of stairs.”
Lenny lay with his face pressed against the floor. Cudge stood over him, seeing only the back of his friend’s head. “Get up! Move, you little turd!”
He prodded the still form with his boot, was surprised when there was no movement. He squeezed his eyes shut against the sudden stab of pain in his temples. When he reopened them he noticed the widening pool of blood on the floor.
Cautiously Cudge crouched to the ground, the cassette player still clutched in his hand. He turned Lenny faceup, thinking how light he felt, how his still form offered little resistance. The wide, staring eyes panicked him and the cassette player fell from his hand.
Jesus. He didn’t need anyone to tell him that Lenny was dead. The jerk was dead! Jesus. Oh, Jesus. He had killed his best friend!
As Tony punched down the yeasty dough and stretched it over the shiny pan, he watched her. As always, his heart went out to her. She was still a kid. Other girls, by the time they were eighteen, were more woman than child. But not Elva. She would always remain a child, a frightened, winsome, confused child. Too bad she had to meet up with that animal, Balog. A nice guy could be the salvation of a timid kid like Elva, but in the hands of the hulk she was damned. Pity. She wasn’t a bad-looking girl. Too skinny, of course, and a little pinched-looking, and her eyes were always on the edge of panic, but she was pretty in a shy sort of way. With a little fixing she could be really pretty. A haircut and a little meat on her bones would make a world of difference. And something, Tony thought, or someone, to take that haunted look from her eyes.
As he scattered mozzarella cheese on the pizza, Tony found a chunk and handed it to Elva, noticing her severely bitten fingernails. She took the cheese from him with a shy smile and nibbled at it. He pushed the prepared pizza into the oven and went back to cleaning the counter. “Elva—what kind of name is that? Ol’ Tony never hear it before you come here.”
“It’s a name I just like,” she answered between nibbles.
“So, it’s not your name?”
“It is now. My name used to be Brenda Kopec,” she said, putting the last morsel into her mouth.
“Brenda! That’s a nice name. Soft, like you. So, how come you change it? My own two daughters, they want names like Brandy and Tiffany. What’s wrong with Maria and Theresa anyhow? I’m never gonna understand them. So, tell Tony, how come you changed your name?”
“I call myself Elva after Elvis Presley. I heard somewhere that Elva was the girl’s name for Elvis.”
“Elvis, huh? He dead long time now, you know.”
“Gone but not forgotten. As far as I’m concerned, he’s still the king and I love him!” she said with rare emotion.
Tony glanced up, struck by the sadness in her voice. It held the same note he had heard in his wife’s voice whenever she mentioned their own dead son.
“I’ve read all the books written about him, seen all his old movies, and I’ve got all his songs on tape. He was a gentleman, Tony. A real gentleman. And generous.” She pulled at her dull brown hair, her fingers working in agitation.
“You like your fellas generous? So what are you doing with that cheap son of a bitch, Balog?”
“He ain’t so bad. Sometimes I think he’s scared inside, just like me. Only he don’t show it like I do.”
Tony shrugged. There was no accounting for these American girls. He only prayed that his own daughters wouldn’t end up with anybody like Cudge Balog. If Elva was right about Balog being scared of something, Tony couldn’t imagine what it might be. He’d seen guys that Balog had worked over and he knew what the man’s fists could do to a face. It was only a matter of time before he killed someone, and Tony hoped that it wouldn’t be Elva. She was a good kid, even if she was a little stupid. Maybe if she weren’t so scared all the time she wouldn’t be so dumb.
Elva hurried back to the apartment, balancing the hot pizza carefully so the gooey cheese wouldn’t run to one side. She wondered how long she’d been gone. It seemed like a long time, and Cudge would get mad if she kept him waiting. Suddenly, she couldn’t remember if she’d picked up the change from Tony’s counter. Cudge was a real stickler when it came to money. She stopped in front of a tenement and propped her leg on the stoop, balancing the pizza on her knee. The heat penetrated the cardboard box and stung her leg as she frantically dug through her pockets, looking for the change. Her panic began to turn to hysteria when she couldn’t find it. She thought of going back to Tony’s to see if she’d left it on the counter and glanced back along the street. The red light over Tony’s door had gone out. What should she do? Maybe she could catch up with him at his car . . . Just then her fingers touched cold metal and relief flooded through her. She’d found it; she hadn’t been stupid after all. For safekeeping, Elva dumped the coins into her bra, then gripped the pizza box again and hurried back to Cudge.
She smiled in the darkness. Everything had gone right for a change. Cudge wouldn’t have anything to yell about.
When Elva turned down Courtland Street, she recognized the familiar outline of Cudge’s Chevy pickup truck and the flat square shape of the pop-up camper hitched to its rear. They rarely went camping, but just a few days ago Cudge had talked about taking a weekend in the country. Like so many things Cudge talked about, Elva never expected to see it come to anything.
She loped up the front stoop of their building and into the dimly lit hallway. Urine and stale cooking odors came to her nostrils. Just as her foot was on the first step leading upstairs, the door to the landlady’s apartment swung open.
“Oh, it’s you. I thought maybe it was you he was knocking around up there.” Mrs. Fortunati’s thin gray hair fell over her eyes and she brushed it away with an impatient gesture of her work-worn hands. “You’d better get your ass up there and see what’s going on. I was thinking about calling the cops.”
Elva gulped at the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. The night was ruined; Cudge had done it again. Now it wouldn’t matter that she had bought the pizza and brought home the right change and had done everything just exactly right. Cudge was going to be nasty and find something, anything, to be mad about anyway.
“Well, what are you waiting for? Get up there! From the sound of it he was tearing the place apart.” She moved to the banister and watched Elva go up the stairs as she issued her last warnings. “I’m telling you now, there better not be any trouble or out you go! The both of you! Him in particular!”
Elva waited outside the door, dreading going in. For all Mrs. Fortunati’s ravings, it was quiet now. Only the cries of the baby from up in 4B broke the silence.
She fumbled with the doorknob, balancing the pizza box on her knee. The door opened a mere three inches. Cudge had latched the chain hook. Puzzled, Elva opened her mouth to call him, then winced. The temperamental tooth with its rice grain of decay was going to ache all night.
“Cudge,” she whimpered, “open the door, will you?”
“Elva?” It was a hoarse whisper from the other side of the door.
Something was wrong. Cudge never whispered. He yelled and put his fists through walls, but he never whispered. “Yeah, it’s me,” she responded. “What’s the matter? Why are you whispering?”
The door was forced shut, jamming against a corner of the pizza box, and she heard him fumbling with the chain latch. Then it swung open again and he grabbed hold of her arm and pulled her into the apartment. The bare lightbulb over the kitchen table swung back and forth, creating wild shadows and rhythmic patterns of light.
“Get in here, dummy. Where the hell were you?” He was angry but he was still whispering, and the annoyance on his face was mingled with something else. Something dreadful she had never seen there before. Now it wouldn’t matter that she had done everything exactly right. Nothing would matter except that Cudge was mad and, one way or another, she would pay for it.
“I . . . I went for the pizza like you told me. I even got the change.”
“Shut up. I gotta think!”
Elva shrank back, still clutching the pizza box. Something was wrong, awfully wrong. What? She’d never seen Cudge like this, so quiet and scared. He moved away from her and sank down on the edge of the daybed, his head in his hands. The TV was still on but the sound had been turned off. She watched him, not daring to turn her eyes away.
Then suddenly, like an uncoiled spring, he jumped to his feet and punched the wall, his lips drawn back over his teeth in a frightening grimace.
“Stupid little shit! He never should’ve tried to bust my hump. He should’ve known I didn’t have fifty bucks to pay him back.” His fist pounded the wall again, punctuating his words. “Thought he’d take my truck and rig. Thought I was stupid or something. He should’ve known!”
Elva pressed against the wall, eyes wide with terror. In all the time she had lived with Cudge she’d never seen him like this. Cudge was scared. Scared shitless.
“Don’t look at me that way!” He turned on her, slamming his fist into the cardboard pizza box, knocking it to the floor.
“You ruined it.” Automatically she bent down to pick up the box but Cudge hoisted her to her feet.
“What the hell are you messing with that for?”
“I . . . I just wanted to clean it up.”
He shook her, almost making her teeth chatter. “Oh, yeah? Well, see what you can do about cleaning that up!” He turned her around so she came face-to-face with Lenny Lombardi. Lenny was lying on the floor, his face barely recognizable. If it hadn’t been for his familiar trench coat and slick dark hair, she wouldn’t have known him.
Elva knelt down beside him, her hands extended in a gesture of helplessness. Lenny wasn’t breathing!
Her mouth opened but before the sound could rip from her throat, Cudge had his beefy hand clasped over her lips, covering her nose, cutting off her air. Waiting for her to be quiet, he hissed a warning not to scream.
She stared up at him over his hand, her eyes wild and panicky, then shook her head violently, fighting for breath.
“Will you shut up?” Cudge growled. “ ’Cause if you don’t, you’ll get some of the same.”
The cords in Elva’s neck threatened to burst; she was feeling dizzy and sparks were shooting off inside her head. Frantically, she nodded.
Cudge waited a long moment before removing his hand. For an instant, she believed he never would, that he would hold her there forever and ever. Her feet kicked out, touching the soft, unyielding body wedged against the wall. Sickened, she ceased her struggles.
“Now, shut up. One sound out of you and you’ll look just like him!” Cudge warned in that creepy whisper, a scared look narrowing his eyes.
Full of revulsion, Elva made her way to the daybed, away from Lenny—from what used to be Lenny. She clamped her hands over her mouth to stay the questions. Unable to control herself any longer, she began to tremble as the words tumbled out.
“Why? Why’d you kill him? He was your friend! My God! You killed him!”
Cudge raised his hand, threatening her. “I told you to shut up! I don’t wanna hear your mouth! Shut up!”
Elva was beyond the point of hysteria, she was verging on dementia. “God! You killed him! You killed Lenny! Your best friend! God!”
“If you don’t shut up so I can think, you’re gonna get what he got!” Cudge knocked the lamp beside her onto the floor. “One more word, Elva, one more word and you’re gonna get it! You stupid broad! I gotta think!”
“But the police! What are you gonna do? They’ll find out!”
“Quit your babbling, I gotta think!”
She shuddered with horror. Cudge had killed Lenny Lombardi and he would do the same to her if she didn’t keep quiet. Everyone always said Cudge would kill somebody someday and Elva had silently agreed with them, never realizing how his potential for violence fascinated her. But Lenny was his friend.
Cudge paced the floor, his hands constantly kneading his skull in exasperation. While he paced, he kept up a constant monologue, muttering curses at Lenny, whining complaints and praying to God for a solution.
Bit by bit the quarrel between Lenny and Cudge became clear to Elva as she stole quick looks at the body that lay stuffed between the table and the wall.
“We have to get out of here,” Cudge said, intensity sharpening his blunt features. “And we have to get him out of here, too, before anybody starts wondering where he got to.”
Elva looked up, puzzled.
“You’re an accessory, you know,” he informed her. “If I hang, you’re gonna hang, too!”
“Me? I didn’t do anything! I just came in here and found . . . him.”
“It don’t matter, baby,” Cudge told her, his voice showing concern. He knew how easy Elva was to handle—stupid, dumb broad. All he had to do was make her think he cared for her and she came crawling, willing to do anything he demanded. “Look, baby. According to the law, you should have run out of here and gone straight to the cops. You didn’t, so that means you’re aiding and abetting. That makes you an accessory and what I get, you get too! Understand?”
Elva really didn’t understand, but she knew that Cudge was smart when it came to the law and he sounded as though he knew what he was talking about. If he said she was an accessory, then she must be one. He’d been busted by the cops enough times to know what he was saying. “But what can we do? Where can we go?”
Cudge smiled to himself. Poor, stupid Elva. “Look, baby, we’ve got to get out of here and we have to take him with us. I figure we can stuff him into the camper and take off somewhere and bury him.”
A tear trickled down her cheek. “Poor Lenny.”
“What about ‘poor Cudge’? What about me? That stupid jerk tried to rip me off—he got what was coming to him! And now I ain’t got no best friend.” He knew that would bring Elva around. There was nothing that could swing Elva around like cheering for the underdog. Just make her feel sorry for you and you could lead her around by the nose.
“Cudge, I didn’t mean anything like that.” She went over to put her arms around him. “Sure I know how hard this must be on you and all. Lenny was your friend and I know you didn’t mean to . . . to hurt him.”
“That’s right, honey. I never mean to hurt nobody. I just don’t know what comes over me sometimes. Hey, I’m sorry I hit you before. Real sorry. Sometimes I don’t know my own strength. But don’t back out on me, baby. I need you. More now than ever.”
Elva’s heart went out to him. Poor Cudge, he just couldn’t help himself. Any more than her father had been able to control his temper. Hadn’t Mama always forgiven him? Hadn’t Mama known that she was Daddy’s very own salvation here on earth? Daddy had known it too. He always called Mama his own angel. Deciding she couldn’t do any less for Cudge, Elva squeezed him hard. “Just tell me what you want me to do. I’ll do anything to help you, Cudge, you know that.”
“Good girl.” He answered her hug with a kiss on the cheek. “Only don’t go getting the idea you’re doing it for me. It’s for you too, baby. Christ, what would I do if they ever took you away from me because you’re an accessory?”
“Don’t worry, Cudge,” she said soothingly. “Nobody will ever take me away from you.”
Cudge Balog smiled and began formulating his plans for moving the remains of Lenny Lombardi into the camper.