Chapter 8
Paul Moran awoke the next morning and he did not open his eyes. Pain ripped through his head, and his stomach turned over slowly. He had a hangover of the first magnitude and there could be nothing gained by opening his eyes.
Why had he done it?
And where was the ice cream that he had intended eating?
He wondered if he would vomit. It was a bad one, no question about it. He had to go to work today; no chance of calling in sick. And it was part of playing the game. If he'd had a mildly upset stomach he might have called in sick. He was ten times sicker now, but it was a hangover, punishment that followed the pleasure of the jug, and he had to go to work ... if he were playing the game. He sat up.
He was hit with fourteen tons of nitroglycerine, but he expected that. It wasn't too bad. Fourteen tons was the minimum; actually he had been hit with twenty before ... and long tons at that.
Paul pulled his legs up and dropped them over the side of the bed. He brought his face down into his hands and held his head there. He shuddered.
Then he laughed crazily and it made him feel better. It was a ridiculous thing, but it always seemed to help.
He laughed again and leaped out of bed. He raced for the shower, stripping his pajamas from his body.
Forty-five minutes later Paul Moran was walking down Union Street towards his office. He was sick, but he was going to work. He walked rapidly and whistled a little as he moved along. The hangover he carried so well as a mantle on his shoulders was something that would not last; they always went away after a few hours. He whistled, not because he was happy with the state of his health, but because his health was going to improve in the near future.
As Paul Moran neared the office, he saw Peter Wilson coming down the sidewalk toward him carrying several books under his arm. Paul knew who he was; he was a screwed-up kid who was going to Thornton J.C.
Paul wondered if Peter Wilson knew Evette. No. Maybe he had heard of her or seen her, but a pimply-faced kid like Peter would never know Evette.
Paul started to turn into the doorway of the office. Peter Wilson passed him at this point.
"Hello, Peter," Paul said.
"Oh ... uh, hello, Mr. Moran." Peter hurried on down the sidewalk in the direction of Thornton Junior College.
Paul watched Peter Wilson moving away. He was a numb libido, Paul thought. The kid had a sex problem. Well, what the hell? Everybody had a sex problem. Or did they? Maybe Moran had a problem and judged people through an eye that was a little myopic, sexually anyway.
He laughed. The only sex problem P. Moran had was that he wasn't getting any. That was all that was wrong with old man Moran.
Except for a blazing hangover.
Paul went on into the newspaper office. He passed through the classified department and back into the editorial offices. Gerald Pierce, the editor, was sitting at his typewriter with an unlit pipe between his teeth. He was not really a pipe smoker but would have been a chewing man if it were acceptable. He was tall, thin, and gray-haired; he was sixty years old and not a soft sixty either. His forehead skidded, due to hair that was quitting, and his face was wrinkled. He would not have been happy if he had been a soft sixty; it would never have fit his personality. Probably nothing had ever been easy for him, whether being promoted in grammar school or finally getting through college. With some people, the hard way is the only way worth a damn.
"Good morning, Paul," Gerald Pierce said.
"Go to hell," Paul said and dropped down at his desk.
"Write an editorial on it."
"I will."
"You have a hangover."
"I have a hangover."
"Why do you drink, lad?" Pierce said.
"Why do you drink, old editor?"
"To feel better."
"Well, I tried it and went too far."
"It isn't the woman who always pays."
"Stick it up your nose, wise old one."
Gerald Pierce bit on his pipe. Paul thought he would rather be pressing his teeth into a cud of tobacco.
"Well, pee on it," Paul said, "I'm going to write a glorious, sexually perverted story about the P.T.A."
"Good boy."
"Yeah. I think I'll go to sleep."
"The P.T.A. isn't so important, but I need that story on the zoning variance the chain store is asking for."
"That was what I was afraid of."
"... Partnership of Kraus and Musso, known as Economy Marts, has applied to the city council for a zoning variance on the property at Juarez and Adams Streets." The fingers were moving in unison now. He didn't have to look at any notes; he knew the story completely and would write it easily if the hangover didn't kill him first.
As he typed, he remembered when he had the flu last winter; it had been sort of fun compared to this. Hangovers didn't last too long but they could take you out a lot neater than the flu ever would. With the flu you could get the chills and pull the blankets up a little snugger and feel a certain security from it. It was insane; he had never felt more secure in his life when he'd had the flu. With a hangover, he was ready to blow his brains out.
"Did you hang one one with Stan last night?" the editor said.
"No. I had some drinks with Stan, but that wasn't what did it. I ran into Roy Warwick on the way home and he wanted me to have drink with him and...." Paul left it there. There wasn't any reason to mention to his boss about how he'd been shaken by Roy.
"How is Roy? Drunk as ever?"
Paul shrugged. He didn't like to talk to other people about Roy, not even with Gerry, whom he liked and respected a great deal.
"I wonder how Roy feels about his daughter?" Gerald said. "I wonder about that a lot. Just how does a sensitive guy like Roy think about the town whore being his girl?"
Paul continued typing his story about the supermarket.
"Does he ever say anything about it to you?" Gerald said.
"No." That had been true, at least until last night.
Paul sat at his typewriter, grinding out the story. He had no interest in the story but it had to be written. It was his job. Paul had a determination that would carry him through almost anything. Almost. And almost haunted him. His determination had not always carried him. He expected too much of himself; he knew it, but he couldn't help himself.
"You're doing great," Gerald Pierce said. "I knew you could do it."
"Jump out the window," Paul said.
Somehow or other, Gerry always said the right thing.
Paul went on typing his zone variance story about the supermarket. As he worked, his mind came again to Evette Warwick and a new uneasiness moved over him. Why did he have to think of her? And thinking about her, why did he have to feel distraught? He was afraid. He was afraid that: Someone was going to kill Evette Warwick.
Otto was working in the shed. He found himself there more often than he should. He knew the reason: the place reeked of sexuality, and it excited Otto just to be there.
It was as if he could smell her there, a raw, sexy animal odor that was driving Otto crazy.
Otto sat on the cot, facing the window through which he had spied on Claude and Evette. He was hard, and he smiled in spite of himself.
At his age, any erection should be a source of pleasure. But the only erections he was able to have occurred when he was all alone in the shadows and dust of the shed.
He heard the footsteps but they came so quickly that he did not have time to leave the shed. It was Evette.
"Fancy finding you here," she said.
"Why? This is my place, you know. And what are you doing here? You are welcome in my store because you are a customer, but you have no business here!"
Evette was chewing gum. She smiled, then stuck out her tongue at the old German. "Relax, Otto," she said. "I'm looking for an earring."
"Here?"
"Yes-here! Don't act like such an idiot. I know you were peeping at Claude and me. I don't know, but it's possible that's the day I lost it."
She searched the floor carefully on her hands and knees. Otto's erection had attained the painful stage and wasn't helped by the show that Evette was putting on.
Finally she stood up and dusted her hands. "Don't see it," she said. Then she walked over to Otto and sat down on his lap. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him full on the mouth. "I can feel you," she whispered. "It feels like a big one to me. I like big ones that I can feel all the way!"
Otto groaned.
She stood up and quickly removed her clothing. "I know that you think I'm awful," Evette said, "but the truth of the matter is that I need a lot of sex. I've never done it with someone your age," she continued. "I think I'll like it!"
Otto stood and tried to leave but the young woman stopped him cold with a smile. "I love to suck it," Evette said. "Here-let me do it to you!"
She knelt between his legs and unzipped his baggy pants and then hauled out his amazingly hard shaft. Otto's penis was long and thin and it delighted Evette. "I've never seen one like this!" she gushed, stroking it gently.
She leaned forward and encircled the hard bulb with her wet lips and Otto wanted to bellow with pleasure. He felt as if he were twenty years old, and the warm feeling was wonderful. He held her head in his hands, his face split with a smile of pure delight. He knew that he was possessed by her satanic sexuality and that no good could come of it, but for now he didn't care.
She worked back and forth, taking his entire length somehow. Then she withdrew his penis from her mouth, stood up, and turned around.
The she bent over, her legs straight, her hands resting on her knees. Her legs were spread wide apart and she said, "give it to me like that!"
He rammed into her with a fierceness he didn't know he had, and he worked it back and forth as quickly as he could, loving the hot, wet, young feel of her. His orgasm was powerful enough to bring him to his knees, and he heard Evette laughing as she dressed.
"I might be back," she said.
"Please," he said, once again in control of his senses. "Please-never come back!"
Evette pouted. "And I thought this was going to mean free ice cream from now on," she said, then laughed harshly at the old German's look of dismay.
After she left, Otto went upstairs to sleep. His mind was in a whirl, but one thing was perfectly clear:
Someone was going to kill Evette Warwick.