One Night Stands and Lost Weekends

He shook himself suddenly and took several deep breaths in rapid succession. He had almost fallen asleep that time. His eyes remained open, but his arms and legs were completely relaxed. He had heard about that—falling asleep bit by bit, until your mind wandered into dream-channels that seemed vividly real. He moved his arms around to speed the circulation and touched his injured ankle gingerly. It was sore to the touch and swelling rapidly.



There was a laugh from the rear of the cave. “Almost,” said Zeke. “You’re an old man, Pops. Pretty soon you’ll be dropping the gun. Why don’t you just give it up?”



Damn you, thought Dan. He looked at his watch—10:20. It was dark now inside the cave, too dark for him to make out the outline of the rear wall. He’d have to chance running out of kerosene.



He struck a match and lit the lantern, warming his hands over it. It felt good. He hefted the gun in his hand. Was there a bullet left? The gun was full three days ago, but he had shot at some squirrels since then. How many times had he fired it? Five? Six? He couldn’t remember.



Nor was it possible to tell by the weight. He could judge between a full gun and an empty one, but one bullet either way didn’t make that much of a difference.



He noticed himself blinking more and more frequently, as his eyes struggled to shut against his will. He forced himself to look first at the lantern, then off into the darkened area of the cave. Just so it isn’t steady, he thought. Vary it, mix it up, just so you don’t get accustomed to one position. He moved his arms from time to time, shifted his weight, and changed the position of his legs as much as the broken ankle would permit.



The boys spoke less, then stopped talking altogether. It was almost midnight when he heard Zeke’s voice, soft but clear in the near-silence of the night.



“Pops,” the boy said, “Benny’s sleeping. Isn’t that nice?”



He didn’t answer. There was no point in wasting energy; he needed every drop of it just to keep awake.



“I said he’s asleep,” the boy repeated. “Just closed his eyes and floated right off. Sleeping like a baby.”



Stop it, Dan thought fiercely. Don’t talk about it, you bastard. Don’t even mention the word.



But Zeke knew what he was doing. “Sleeping. Wouldn’t you like to take a little nap right now, Pops? Be real easy, you know? Just close your eyes, lean back…”



No. His hand tightened on the butt of the gun, squeezing hard. He started to sweat again, and then a cold chill came over him.



“Relax,” the voice cooed. “You’re real tired. You want to catch a little sleep. Close your eyes. Go ahead—close them.”



Dan’s eyelids dropped by themselves at the command, and he had to struggle to lift them again. He was being hypnotized, crudely but efficiently.



“Damn you!” he roared. “God damn you!” The boy chuckled. Zeke’s chuckle grew into a laugh, and Dan could feel his pulse racing. He shouldn’t have blown up. He had to relax, had to take things slowly and easily.



Zeke began again, slowly and methodically urging him to sleep, but Dan forced his mind to ignore the suggestions. It wasn’t easy.



His body was beginning to rebel as he alternately sweated and shivered. His ankle ached with a vengeance until he wanted to put a bullet through it. But for all he knew the gun was empty. He didn’t dare break it open to check. Zeke was watching him constantly, commenting on every move he made. If the gun was empty…



He began glancing at his watch with increasing frequency. It seemed as though time was standing still for him, as though he and the two devils were suspended in a stalemate for eternity. But the weight of his eyelids and the nagging aches of his body assured him that this was not the case. He grew weaker and more tired with each passing second.



A few minutes past one, his grip relaxed and the gun nearly dropped from his hand. He swore and the boy laughed.



Is it loaded? Dammit, is it loaded? And then, suddenly, what the hell difference does it make?



He realized that it made no difference at all. Whether the gun was empty or full, they thought it was full. And because they thought he held a loaded gun, they were waiting for him to fall asleep. As long as…



“Pops,” the voice interrupted him, “Zeke’s gonna have a little nap. Ain’t he lucky?”



Shut up.



“You’ll be sleeping soon, Pops. Then I’ll have a chance to cut you good. Dig?” Benny had none of the hypnotic effect of Zeke, but his words dug at Dan’s brain and broke his train of thought.



Dan clenched his hands into fists and bit his lip so hard that he tasted blood in his mouth. If they thought he was awake, and that the gun was loaded, they wouldn’t approach him. The real thing didn’t matter. It was what they thought.



“I don’t think I’ll give it to you quick, Pops. I’ll just take that gun away and do a nice slow job. Think you’ll like that? I’m good with a blade. Real good.”



Now how could he sleep, yet make them think he was awake? They could watch him clearly, watch the eyes shut and the gun fall. His fingers would relax, so slowly that he wouldn’t ever feel it, and the gun would slip, gently to the floor. How could he fake it?



“Think you’re tough, Pops? You won’t be so tough. I’ll cut you up so slow. You’ll bawl, you know? A big guy like you, you’ll bawl like a baby.”



Of course, he could put out the lantern. Then they couldn’t see whether or not he slept. He reached for the lantern, then hesitated. It wouldn’t work.



Without the lantern, he wouldn’t be able to see them either. They could sneak up, just as Zeke had suggested. And he knew that he would never be able to stay awake in the darkness. He’d fall asleep within minutes.



“Go to sleep, Pops. Go to sleep, you rotten bastard.”



Dan blinked rapidly and sucked in a large mouthful of air. Time was passing, and it was on their side. But…and suddenly he had it! As soon as he fell asleep, they would know it. And he would fall asleep before help came. But if they thought he was asleep. Just like the gun, the truth of the picture didn’t matter.



For the next five minutes he sat very still, scarcely moving at all. Then, slowly and carefully, he let his eyelids drop shut. He breathed deeply and rhythmically. He relaxed.



Benny’s taunts had ceased, and he could hear the boy’s quiet breathing at the rear of the cave. Slowly, bit by bit, he let his fingers relax and his fist open, until the gun dropped from his grip and bounced gently upon the earth.



Minutes passed. Then he heard movement at the rear of the cave, followed by the clean, metallic click of the switchblade knife. They would be coming soon. He kept his eyes closed and his breathing regular.



A hushed whisper, followed by more movement and another click, informed him that Zeke was also awake. He waited, tense as a drum. His left arm began to itch insistently, but he didn’t even consider scratching it. He let it itch and bit harder on his lip until the blood came.



There was more movement. He was able to sense, even with his eyes closed, that they stood in plain sight of him now. He could see them clearly in his mind—Zeke cautious, expressionless; Benny anxious, his eyes gleaming.



Here they come. You can even hear them breathing. They’re getting closer, and you only get one chance. Get ready…



Now!



In one movement he snapped open his eyes and grabbed for the gun. They were barely ten feet away, rooted in their tracks as he came to life before their eyes. He raised the gun, hooked his finger around the trigger, and leveled it at Zeke’s chest.



“Drop ’em,” he said. “Drop the knives.”



Benny gaped like a fish. His hand trembled and the knife fell to the earth.



“Now you,” Dan ordered. “Drop it!”



There was no smile on Zeke’s face now. The deadpan expression was gone, too, and fear mingled with surprise replaced it. He dropped the knife.



“Now kick them across the floor.” They did as he said.



He let out a breath, finally. “Okay,” he said. “Now, you both lie down on your bellies, facing me. Zeke, you start crawling over here. Benny, you better stay right where you are.”



Zeke inched his way forward. When he was within reach, Dan chopped him viciously across the head with the barrel of the gun. “Go to sleep,” he said. “Pleasant dreams, fella.”



He lifted the gun and pointed it at Benny. “Now you,” he snapped. “Get over here.”



“No! Please!”



“Maybe you want a bullet instead, Benny? This is a big gun, you know? Makes a big hole.”



Benny didn’t say anything.



“Get over here!”



The first swipe of the gun barrel knocked Benny unconscious. Dan hit him again, anyway.



He worked quickly. He tore their clothing into strips and bound their ankles and wrists securely. They’d be unable to get loose for a good long while. Long before then Daley would arrive with the mail, and that would be that.



Dan settled back, turned out the lamp, and went to sleep.



THE BADGER GAME



BARON FOLLOWED THE BELLHOP from the elevator to the room. The bellhop opened the door for him and followed him inside, depositing the single brown leather suitcase on the floor. His hand was ready at once to accept the crisp dollar bill Baron handed to him.



“Will there be anything else, sir?” The boy’s eyes indicated that “anything else” took in a wide range of possible services.



Baron considered. A woman might be pleasant, but there would be plenty of time for that later. Besides, he liked to take what he wanted without paying for it.



He dismissed the bellhop with a curt shake of his head and turned away from him. When the door closed behind the boy he kicked off his shoes and stretched out full-length upon the bed.



Richard Baron did not look like a criminal. His clothes were expensive without being flashy—his shoes were black Italian loafers that had cost him thirty dollars a pair and the gray flannel suit cut in the latest continental style had set him back a little over two hundred. His shirts were all white-on-white and had been made to his measurements.



The average Joe would have pegged him for a successful young businessman from the West Coast. Somebody with a little more on the ball might have made him for a hustler in the Organization—not a muscle boy, but somebody with an angle.



Baron was a con man.



It was, he reflected, a good life. For the moment he had nothing to do but relax, and it wasn’t hard to relax with a full wallet and $15,000 in his suitcase, fifteen grand in tens and twenties that he could spend whenever he got around to it. The oil man in Dallas hadn’t stopped payment on his check and wouldn’t even think of it.



The oil man now thought he was the owner of several hundred acres in Canada loaded with uranium. As it happened, the oil man now owned a few hundred totally worthless stock certificates. By the time he found out he had been taken, he wouldn’t even remember what Baron looked like.



The oil man had put up a little over $75,000. Baron’s end of the deal was twenty grand, and it would take awhile to spend it. Not as long as it might take most people, because Baron liked to live somewhat better than most people did. The better restaurants, the better nightclubs, and the better women all helped lift his life to a higher plane. He drank nothing but Jack Daniels and ate nothing but blood-rare steak.