So Nude, So Dead Read online

  “Man, this is one big shooting gallery,” she shrieked.

  “The biggest, the biggest,” he screamed with her, the drug beginning to take hold.

  “I’m pulverized! I’m swinging. Man, I’m stoned!”

  “Flying, flying, flying up there! Man, watch out, watch out for me in my brand-new Cadillac.”

  The Cadillac dream had taken over then, with Ray behind the wheel. That was all he remembered. It had been one hell of a fine fix.

  He went through the bureau again, the closet, the bathroom, even the shower. He went through her purse, scattered her underwear all over the floor, tossed his own clothes off the chair, his shirt, his socks, looking for the elusive candy tin with the white powder in it.

  “Eileen!” he called, unable to contain himself any longer, wanting to wake her, needing the shot now as a man on a desert desperately needs water. No kicks this time, no kicks involved at all. This was life and death. This was the difference between being able to breathe, and dying.

  “Eileen! Wake up, wake up. Help me.”

  He was shivering now, barely able to keep his body steady. He walked rapidly across the room and stooped over the bed.

  “Eileen!” he said, his voice a hoarse whisper, a light sweat covering his body with a cold film. “Eileen.”

  He reached down and touched her shoulder gently, his fingers trembling. “Eileen. Eileen, snap out of it.”

  He shook her more violently, his lips moving frantically, gulping great gulps of nothing in his throat. “Come on, kid,” he pleaded, “come on now, let’s go, come on.”

  With a sudden violent movement, he ripped back the sheet, exposing the length of her body relaxed against the whiteness of the bed. He shook her again, and his eyes traveled down to the hollow of her navel.

  He noticed the holes then.

  They were small holes, just to the right of her navel. They were rimmed with red, and there was a dried river of red across the flatness of her stomach. The redness stretched out beneath her, staining the sheet in gaudy brilliance.

  Her shoulders were quite cold.

  A horror that was worse than the drumming need for the drug seized him. He realized then that Eileen Chalmers wasn’t breathing.

  Chapter Two

  He didn’t touch anything. He didn’t touch a thing, even though his mind told him his fingerprints were probably scattered in a hundred places all around the room.

  He backed away from the bed, still trembling from the shock.

  So that’s what bullet holes look like, he thought. Round and small, and they spill blood over bellies, they kill pretty young girls. He walked back to the bed and pulled the sheet up over her breasts, hiding the ugly holes in her stomach, hiding the blood stains.

  “I have to get out of here,” he said aloud, surprised at the hoarse sound of his own voice. He bit his lip, set his teeth tightly. That’s all the cops would need, all right—a hophead to pin this on. Under the influence of narcotics, Ray Stone, hophead. He washed his hand over his face, trying to wash away the title he’d given himself. But I am a hophead, he argued, forgetting the dead girl completely. He had reached the point where he could admit it freely, say it as casually as he would say “I am a boy scout” or “I am an Elk,” wasn’t that it? No, no, that wasn’t! That wasn’t it. He could never say it like that, never. He would always carry the shame, always wonder if it showed in his eyes, always roll up his sleeves only so far when washing his hands, afraid the telltale scars would show.

  He remembered the dead girl abruptly. He had to get out of there in a hurry. He had to get out of there, and he had to get a shot before he blew up completely.

  A shot.

  Several shots, and all pumped into her belly. Why hadn’t he heard them? Sure, he’d been blind, but wouldn’t the shots have penetrated, wouldn’t they have shaken him from his stupor? Or wouldn’t someone in the hotel have heard them? Surely someone would have heard the shots.

  Unless a silencer were used. And if there had been a silencer on the murder gun, then the killer had come to this room intent on doing murder. This wasn’t a question of Eileen’s surprising a sneak thief or— I need a shot, I need a shot!

  Quickly, he picked up his shirt from the floor. He buttoned the shirt rapidly, slipping his tie under the collar and hastily knotting it. He removed his jacket from the back of the chair, shrugged it onto his shoulders. From the bureau drawer he took his cuff links and fastened them at his wrists with trembling fingers.

  He took the crumpled package of Camels from the drawer, put one between his lips, and struck three matches before he finally lighted it. When he looked into his wallet, he found it was empty. His mind almost screamed at the discovery.

  When would he learn? When would he ever learn? Good God, how could he leave himself wide open like this? The sixteen ounces of stuff, where was it? Hell, he’d been over the room with a fine comb. The stuff was gone, vanished, poof!

  If he didn’t get a shot soon, he would vanish, blow up, dry away; dry up, blow away, he meant. He didn’t know what he meant. Typical hophead, he thought with disgust. Typical muddled jackass. Leaving himself in this predicament. Leaving himself wide open for the monkey to hop on his back. He bit his lip, clenched his hands together. He wanted to feel sorry for himself, but he couldn’t. He had too much pride—yes, pride, damn it— to indulge in self-pity. A strange bittersweet memory of the Ray Stone that used to be crossed his mind, to be immediately stifled by a fresh pang of desire.

  He needed money!

  What day was it? Saturday? No, it was Sunday. His father would be home. He couldn’t call his father, not after all he’d put him through. But he needed money. He could count on his father, he had to call him. Quickly, he walked to the phone on the end table near the bed. He lifted the receiver, held it to his ear, waited.

  “Yes?” the crisp voice asked.

  He hesitated, wondering if he should answer, wondering if the girl would remember his voice when the cops started asking questions later.

  “Yes?” the voice repeated.

  “Line, please,” he said, trying to keep his voice muffled.

  “Yes, sir; just a moment.”

  He waited until he heard a dial tone, then rapidly dialed, repeating the numbers to himself as he spun the dial, breathing harshly, the pain eating at his insides.

  He fidgeted while he listened to the buzzing on the other end.

  “Hello.”

  “Hello, Dad? This is Ray.”

  “Ray! Where are you? Are you all right?”

  “I—I need help, Dad.” He felt sick, disgusted at himself for crawling back to his father like a little boy whenever he needed help. His father should refuse. After all the slaps he’d given him, after all the things he’d said, his father should refuse. He waited.

  “What is it?” His father’s voice was tired. He sounded as if he’d always been tired.

  “I’m in a jam, Dad.”

  There was a long pause, and Ray heard an audible sigh on the line. He knew what his father was going through. He knew, and he hated it. But he needed a shot.

  “I won’t give you any more money, Ray. Not for that. We’ve already been over—”

  “I don’t want any money,” he lied. “I just want to talk to you. I’m in trouble.”

  His father sighed again, the sigh of a man who has taken more than he can bear. Ray listened, and the sound sliced through him like a dagger. “What kind of trouble?” his father asked gently.

  “There’s a dead girl with me, Dad.”

  “What?”

  “A girl. She’s been shot.”

  “Oh my God!” There was a long silence on the line. “Where are you, son?”

  “At a hotel. The Hotel— I—I can’t remember.” He cursed his muddled mind, cursed the drug.

  “Are you downtown?”

  “Yes. I think so. I don’t know.”

  “What’s the matter with you, for God’s sake!” His father sounded as if he were ready to cry.
He had no right to do this to his father. Drugs would never have become a part of his life if Ray hadn’t—

  “I’ll be all right,” he told his father. “Can you meet me?”

  There was silence on the other end. Finally, his father’s voice came to him again. “I knew it would lead to this some day. I knew it, Ray. I should have had you put away. I should have called the cops in the very beginning. I should—”

  “Jesus Christ, am I going to get another sermon?” Ray flared. He bit his tongue quickly, lowered his voice. “I’m—I’m sorry, Dad. I shouldn’t have—I’m sorry. But I’m in trouble. Bad trouble.”

  “I understand,” his father said. “Where do you want me to meet you?”

  “There’s a place on The Street—Fifty-second Street—it’s called Conlee’s. Between Fifth and Sixth. You can’t miss it. Meet me there.”

  “What time?”

  “What time is it now?”

  “Twelve-thirty.”

  “Give me half an hour.”

  “All right.”

  “Dad? You’ll—you’ll bring some money? Ten bucks?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thanks. Thanks.”

  He replaced the receiver rapidly, looked once more at the dead Eileen Chalmers, her face white against its halo of hair. He shivered in a new muscular spasm, then opened the door and left the room quietly.

  * * *

  Half an hour is a long time to wait—especially when you’re overdue. He was overdue. Brother, was he overdue! His stomach seemed to be wrapped around his spine. He couldn’t keep his hands still, even though he’d jabbed them deep into his pockets. He kept shivering, and he looked at the people who passed, wondering if they knew he was an addict.

  How does a guy get this way, he asked himself?

  The other question followed immediately, the way it always did. How does a guy stop being this way?

  You just stop, they all told him. How many times had his father sung that same tune? Look, Ray, be sensible. This thing is all in your mind. Once you set your mind against it, you’ve got it licked. Sure, sure, they all knew.

  Ask an addict, though. Ask an addict how to get off the merry-go-round. See what he told you. All in the mind, sure. His father should be inside his stomach now. His father should see how much “mind” was involved. Where the hell was he? What was keeping him?

  The merry-go-round is an easy thing to hop onto. It goes slowly at first, so that you can walk around with it and jump on whenever you feel like it. Later, when it starts spinning crazily, you can’t jump off; you just can’t. You keep reaching for the gold ring, but you never quite get it.

  How had he started? On a job, he guessed. That was when he’d smoked his first joint. A pang of remorse whispered up into his throat, and he withdrew his hands from his pockets, watched them tremble violently.

  Had he once played the piano? It seemed impossible. They should cut a record of him now. It’d be the greatest thing ever heard.

  The first joint, a stick of marijuana, a harmless thing that made him feel just a little giddy, made him laugh a little too loudly. That was all. Nothing to it, really. No great kicks, nothing really.

  The second stick was a little different. He knew what to expect this time, and this time the smoke seemed to whirl into his mind, sweeping away all the cloudiness, all the cobwebs, and everything was crystal-clear, as glowing as a diamond, as sharp as the glistening edge of a dagger. He’d swung that second time, really swung, and he went on swinging for half the night, feeling so damned good. He was as sharp as a tack, and he knew so much. He could sit there smugly and watch the poor fools prancing around. He could sit there with a tight little smile on his lips, and a secret enjoyment inside him, with his mind functioning like a well-tuned machine.

  He liked it then. He went back to it. It wasn’t expensive, and he enjoyed the feeling.

  And then somebody gave him a sniff of the big stuff. He’d dreamt he was swimming under water the first time. And the fish moved silently around him, swishing, swishing. And there were brilliant coral fans and luminescent eyes, and the warm gentle lap of the water.

  That had been cocaine. He had continued snorting it until someone told him the drug would destroy the mucus membranes in his nose. He had seen graphic enough proof, had seen snorters with open sores on their nostrils. He had learned, too, that heroin was easier to get than cocaine. Most addicts were on H, and the demand dictated the supply, and so he had made a heroin buy, and someone had shown him how to cook the deck, how to shoot it into his arm. He had started with simple skin pops until someone else told him that mainlining was the only way.

  From the first snort to the first mainline shot there had been a total of exactly two months. At the end of that time, he was hooked—and unlike most addicts, he was willing to admit he was hooked, even though such an admission was made with revulsion and reluctance. He had hopped on an innocent-looking merry-go-round, and suddenly the carrousel had begun to pick up speed. It was at top speed now, and it would never slow down, never. He needed a shot every four hours, like clockwork, right on the button. Keep that shot from him and his entire system began to scream for it.

  Where did the merry-go-round end? Did it ever run down?

  Maybe it had run down already.

  Maybe it had run down with the body of a blonde singer stretched out on a hotel bed with two slugs in her belly. Maybe—

  “Ray!” The voice was soft, with an undertone of anxiety in it.

  He turned rapidly, took his father by the arms.

  “Dad, Jesus, what kept you?”

  “Let’s go inside,” his father said.

  “Sure, sure.” He held open the door, his lips moving nervously, his teeth rattling. “Did you bring the money, Dad?”

  “Yes, I brought it.”

  “Good, good.” He laughed a quick, forced laugh. “Good.”

  They walked inside, past the bar with the lights streaming through the lined-up bottles, past the phone booths, into the rear of the place, a dimly lit rectangle surrounded by a dozen or so round tables.

  “Sit down, Dad, sit down,” he offered, pulling a chair out.

  He hated himself while he went through the buttering-up routine, but he went through it. He had no choice, he told himself. He had to have money, and he was going to get it.

  They sat down together, and he leaned across the table, staring into his father’s face.

  “How—how much did you bring?”

  “Tell me about the dead girl,” his father said. He was a small man with an aquiline nose and soft brown eyes. The eyes were moist and deep now, spaniel-like, and Ray felt again the deep guilt for having complicated his father’s simple, easy life. His father—

  “The girl?” Ray snapped himself back to the scene in the hotel room. “She’s dead, Dad. I left her in the room.”

  “How much did you steal from her?”

  “What?”

  “I said—”

  “I heard you! I heard you, all right.” Sudden indignation flooded over Ray. “Are you crazy or something?”

  “I knew it would come to this, Ray.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” His hands were trembling again, more violently this time. He tried to calm himself. He couldn’t blame his father for jumping to conclusions. “I know what, you’re thinking, Dad, but it isn’t the goods. Look, look, I haven’t got time to talk. I—I need a shot. I need it real bad.”

  “Is that why you wanted the money?”

  “Yes.”

  Ray watched his father’s face, and he knew something of the struggle that was going on within the older man.

  “I can’t give you money for that stuff, Ray. I can’t. I’d feel like a murderer.”

  “I know, Dad, I know. You’re right, Dad. But this is different. I need the stuff. I’ve got to figure this out. I need a little time to think straight.”

  “What do you have to figure out?” Mr. Stone asked.

  “This whole busines
s, this thing. The girl, I mean. She’s dead, don’t you understand?”

  “Ray,” Mr. Stone asked quietly, “why didn’t you go to Lexington when I asked you to?”

  Ray felt his patience beginning to snap. He needed a shot, that’s all, a shot, a lousy shot, and he had to go through all this crap. What did he have to do, get down on his knees? Why couldn’t they understand that he had to have it, that his body was screaming for it, that if he didn’t get it soon he’d rip the goddam table in half with his bare hands? Jesus. Jesus!

  “I didn’t want to go to Lexington. I’m no damned criminal. I’ve heard all about Lexington, thank you.”

  “From whom? From your fellow dope f—”

  “Don’t say it! Don’t say it,” Ray shouted. That was it, that was the breaking point. He was through kidding. “You’ve been reading too many comic-book exposés,” he said angrily.

  “This could all have been avoided,” Mr. Stone said.

  “Sure. But it wasn’t. It wasn’t, you see.” He began to tap his heels on the floor. “I need a shot. I need money. I have to have a shot.” He was beginning to speak curiously, his words tumbling out one after the other, He knew this, and he was powerless to stop it. He didn’t care anyway. He didn’t care how he sounded. He wanted that money.

  He couldn’t sit any longer. He stood up abruptly, began pacing back and forth before the table, clenching and unclenching his fists.

  “Are you going to give me the money, or do I get it elsewhere?” he demanded.

  Mr. Stone reached out and put his hand on Ray’s arm. “Sit down, son. No need to get excited.”

  Ray remained standing, hating what he knew was coming, but making no attempt to stop his voice. “Do I get the money? I have to get out of here or I’ll bust wide open. I have to get that shot, can you understand? I can’t hang around here if you’re not giving me any money.”

  “I’ll give you the money, son. Sit down.”

  He reached for his wallet, and Ray sat clown, sighing deeply. “I’m sorry, Dad. Really, I’m sorry.” He cradled his head in his hands. “Why do I always have to beg you? Why can’t you understand what it’s like?” He looked across at his father.