Chapter 11
He was still drunk the next day when he returned to the pad he was sharing with Matty.
Matty wasn't home from work yet, so he stumbled around the kitchen, making himself coffee.
He drank three cups of the black, brackish liquid, pacing up and down the tiny kitchen, and then he sat down in a chair, put his booted feet up on the table and propped the chair back against the wall. The rolled-up cat-a-ninetails made a big lump in the pocket of his leather jacket.
He took it out, laying it across his lap, and then he leaned his head back against the wall and dozed off.
He had a dream. A violent dream. He was riding his motorcycle, going at a fantastic rate of speed up a narrow dirt road.
A mountain road. The road was full of ruts and studded with fallen rocks. The rocks and the ruts almost threw him as he zigzagged through them. They tried to jerk the handlebars out of his grip, but somehow, through desperate effort, he managed to hold on. It amazed him to be going at such a terrific speed up such a steep mountain, but he had no control over the speed of his machine. All he could do was hold on and fight the bucking front wheel. One moment of weakness and he would go over the edge, plunging down and down into the deep black chasm below.
He sweated freely with the terrible struggle.
At last he could see the last ridge, the peak of the mountain ahead of him. The sun was coming up just over its edge, blinding his eyes, making the struggle even more difficult. Somehow he had to make that last stretch, even though he had no idea what was on the other side of the mountain. He might go spinning off into empty space, or plunge like a blazing meteorite into the sea. but whatever happened he just had to make it.
Suddenly a huge boulder loomed up out of nowhere. He screamed, swerving the machine violently....
And that was all. He woke up, the sun streaming directly into his eyes through the open kitchen window.
He heard the sound of footsteps coming up the back stairs, and then Matty opening the back door.
She had a bag of groceries in her arm, which she promptly sat on the table. Only then did she see him sitting there. "Hello! God, you scared me. You look awful. Where have you been, baby-out saucing it up again?"
He grunted, ungluing his tongue from the roof of his mouth, and brought the front chair legs down to the floor again.
He reached into his pocket, took out some crumpled bills and tossed them onto the table next to the bag of groceries.
"What's that for?" she said, picking them up and examining them. Two tens and a five. "Your rich uncle die or something?"
"No, I worked for it. That's about what I owe you, isn't it?"
"Hey, man-you don't owe me anything."
"Yes I do. That ought to pay the rent for the time I've been here. And now you owe me something!"
"What?"
"Something I've wanted all along but you wouldn't give."
"Oh come on! Let's not go through all that again-not at this hour, for God's sake!"
He shrugged, stretching his sore muscles.
"This hour's as good as any. Beside, I'm leaving today. It's my last chance to collect."
She turned her pretty face into a self-satisfied smirk.
"Well I guess you're out of luck then, man, because Matty's not giving any of that out to any male stud."
He stood up slowly, gripping the whip in his hand.
"Oh yes you are-and to this one right here."
For the first time she looked a little frightened.
"Hey, have you gone crazy or something?"
"Crazy like a fox. You've been getting a great big kick out of teasing me all this time. Now it's my turn."
He began moving around the table. She saw the whip, and her eyes widened a little.
"Jimmy-no!"
He moved toward her.
She turned suddenly and ran. But her sense of direction was wrong.
She ran toward instead of away from the bedroom. He caught her there. He caught her by the waist and kissed her pert little mouth crushingly. She writhed in his arms and clawed at him with her nails, but he felt nothing. Her body seemed fragile, like he could break every bone in it if he wanted to.
But he let her go suddenly.
"Strip!"
"Jimmy," she said, her voice scared now, "be nice and I'll...."
He caught her shirt front and ripped it away. Then he pinioned her in the bed, got hold of her pants zipper and ripped it down. She kicked at him, hard.
He used the whip then. He caught her and turned her across his knee, yanking down her pants, and began to whip her with it.
Not hysterically this time.
Determinedly.
She screamed and yowled, so he took the pillow and shoved it in her face and used the cat some more. Her neat little buttocks twitched and turned to flame, but pretty soon the fight went out of her. He pushed her back on the bed then and tossed the whip into a corner of the room.
She didn't move as he began taking off his clothes.
She was still motionless as he came to her, naked, ready and determined.
He wasn't rough and he wasn't tender. He was very methodical. He kissed her on the mouth, on her small breasts, ran his hands over her, trying to stimulate her in every way he knew how.
He was only partially successful.
But that was enough.
Then he began. He forced her, he pressed himself against her, slowly but urgently. Her eyes went shut and she grimaced in pain. But she didn't scream.
He had to give her credit for that-she didn't scream. And he must have hurt her quite a bit, too.
The loss of virginity usually does.
He wasn't surprised by that. She had been lying all along on that score.
She had never had a man.
He became tender then, after the initial move. She cried out once but then she said nothing, and he stroked her and kissed her and soothed her.
And made love to her.
When he was finished, she lay still. He got up and dressed.
"I hate you," she said, watching him. He laughed.
"Don't worry; you'll get over that. You're good, Matty. And you're also a nice girl. Try being one for awhile-that can be a kick, too."
He walked out of the room before she started crying. She had pride. She wouldn't want him to see that.
Out through the living room and kitchen, racing down the familiar back stairs.
Morning.
Bright morning. A new day.
The Harley's engine kicked over on the first try out in the street. Its deep-throated roar rose up to greet the sun. Then he was going, tooling down the street and up the hill, skirting the city.
He stopped at the first filling station that was open.
"Fill 'er up," he said to the sleepy-eyed attendant, and went inside to the coin phone hanging from the wall.
With luck, she might still be in San Jose, he thought as he dropped his dime in and dialed.
His luck was holding out. Her familiar voice was the one that answered the phone.
"Hello," he said. "Want to go for a ride on a motorcycle?"