her eyes and smoked. On the first try, she coughed almost immediately upon
inhaling and lost the bulk of the smoke. After that she began to get the hang of it.
It was working before she realized it. She finished the first cigarette and used Marty’s
lighter to start a second. Midway through the second, she realized that her head was
light, that colors were brighter than before, that the mariachi music sounded good
for the first time. Marty said something to her, something very trivial, and it seemed
hysterically funny. She started to laugh and could not stop. She simply went on laughing
until she was gasping for breath.
“Marty.”
“What, baby?”
“I’m high, Marty.”
“I know.”
“Are you high?”
“I’m getting an edge on.”
“I’m so high, Marty. And so
hot
!” That, she thought, was certainly the truth. She was so hot she was going to set
the whole night club on fire. Instead of calming her sexual urges, the marijuana had
made her realize just how excited she was. She closed her eyes and felt the blood
flowing in her loins, felt the warmth that flooded her big breasts.
So hot. She spilled tequila into her glass and drank it right down. It settled in
her stomach. She let her eyes close again and felt the warmth of the Mexican firewater
in her belly.
“When does the show start again, Marty?”
“Soon, baby.”
“Good.”
He stood up now, moved his chair so that he was sitting next to her instead of across
from her. He put his arm around her shoulder. She took his hand and positioned it
on her breast. His fingers flexed and she shivered, her blood pounding through her
veins. She took his other hand and wedged it up under her dress.
His hand moved further upward, he caressed her and she sobbed.
“Warm,” he said.
“Play with me, Marty. Oh, God!”
* * *
There was no moon. Clouds masked the stars. It was night, a dark night, and it was
time to begin.
Weaver left the hotel without speaking to the old man behind the desk. He walked through
the streets, detoured through darker alleyways. It was still a little too early, he
thought, because there were still too many people on the streets, too much automobile
traffic. Still, it was time to begin, time to search. His first victim, the girl in
Tulsa, had been an accident of fate. She had blundered across his path. But there
was no reason to assume that he would be that lucky again.
He couldn’t wait for the next one to come to him. He would have to seek her out, whoever
she might be, wherever she was now. He would have to find her and stalk her, and when
the time was right he would strike like a black panther in the night, like a vampire.
On Perry Street, not far from his hotel, he wandered into a bar. It was a skid row
sort of place with a strong beer and urine smell. The television set was on, tuned
in on an old Gary Cooper western. Three wine drinkers held up one end of the bar.
A woman, a little drunk and a little slutty, sat at the far end. She turned when Weaver
came in, and she flashed him a professionally brilliant smile.
He avoided her at first, walking to the middle of the bar and asking for a glass of
draft beer. The bartender drew a beer for him and he took a sip. He had never especially
cared for the taste of beer. He did not especially care for it now.
“Hey,” the woman called. “Come here, Mac.”
He turned and really looked at her for the first time. She was somewhere in her thirties
but it was hard to tell just where. The liquor she had been drinking hid her age neatly
enough; she could have been thirty or forty or anywhere in between. Her hair was dark
brown, her mouth painted with a great deal of lipstick. Her breasts were large and
heavy.
She called to him again. This time he went over to her, carrying his glass of beer
with him. He set the beer down on the top of the bar and seated himself upon the stool
at her side.
“You look like a nice
inhaling and lost the bulk of the smoke. After that she began to get the hang of it.
It was working before she realized it. She finished the first cigarette and used Marty’s
lighter to start a second. Midway through the second, she realized that her head was
light, that colors were brighter than before, that the mariachi music sounded good
for the first time. Marty said something to her, something very trivial, and it seemed
hysterically funny. She started to laugh and could not stop. She simply went on laughing
until she was gasping for breath.
“Marty.”
“What, baby?”
“I’m high, Marty.”
“I know.”
“Are you high?”
“I’m getting an edge on.”
“I’m so high, Marty. And so
hot
!” That, she thought, was certainly the truth. She was so hot she was going to set
the whole night club on fire. Instead of calming her sexual urges, the marijuana had
made her realize just how excited she was. She closed her eyes and felt the blood
flowing in her loins, felt the warmth that flooded her big breasts.
So hot. She spilled tequila into her glass and drank it right down. It settled in
her stomach. She let her eyes close again and felt the warmth of the Mexican firewater
in her belly.
“When does the show start again, Marty?”
“Soon, baby.”
“Good.”
He stood up now, moved his chair so that he was sitting next to her instead of across
from her. He put his arm around her shoulder. She took his hand and positioned it
on her breast. His fingers flexed and she shivered, her blood pounding through her
veins. She took his other hand and wedged it up under her dress.
His hand moved further upward, he caressed her and she sobbed.
“Warm,” he said.
“Play with me, Marty. Oh, God!”
* * *
There was no moon. Clouds masked the stars. It was night, a dark night, and it was
time to begin.
Weaver left the hotel without speaking to the old man behind the desk. He walked through
the streets, detoured through darker alleyways. It was still a little too early, he
thought, because there were still too many people on the streets, too much automobile
traffic. Still, it was time to begin, time to search. His first victim, the girl in
Tulsa, had been an accident of fate. She had blundered across his path. But there
was no reason to assume that he would be that lucky again.
He couldn’t wait for the next one to come to him. He would have to seek her out, whoever
she might be, wherever she was now. He would have to find her and stalk her, and when
the time was right he would strike like a black panther in the night, like a vampire.
On Perry Street, not far from his hotel, he wandered into a bar. It was a skid row
sort of place with a strong beer and urine smell. The television set was on, tuned
in on an old Gary Cooper western. Three wine drinkers held up one end of the bar.
A woman, a little drunk and a little slutty, sat at the far end. She turned when Weaver
came in, and she flashed him a professionally brilliant smile.
He avoided her at first, walking to the middle of the bar and asking for a glass of
draft beer. The bartender drew a beer for him and he took a sip. He had never especially
cared for the taste of beer. He did not especially care for it now.
“Hey,” the woman called. “Come here, Mac.”
He turned and really looked at her for the first time. She was somewhere in her thirties
but it was hard to tell just where. The liquor she had been drinking hid her age neatly
enough; she could have been thirty or forty or anywhere in between. Her hair was dark
brown, her mouth painted with a great deal of lipstick. Her breasts were large and
heavy.
She called to him again. This time he went over to her, carrying his glass of beer
with him. He set the beer down on the top of the bar and seated himself upon the stool
at her side.
“You look like a nice
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